Alone
by EmmaBeanz
Summary: John cannot heal from Sherlock's death. Until he meets Amelie. Until the detective shows up in their flat. Everything is almost normal - but Seb Moran doesn't like normal.
1. Memories

John sat and stared at the wall. He'd done a lot of it lately. Sherlock's death had allowed him time to memorize the wallpaper. There seemed to be no point, doing anything else, when Sherlock's arrogant grin wouldn't be waiting. That face haunted John. He dreamed of Sherlock almost every night. The memories washed over him every moment, and it was crippling. The damned limp had returned.

Everyone around John was worried for him. They seemed baffled by how deeply he'd been affected. After all, Sherlock Holmes was a hard man to get close to. But John had done it. He'd broken through to Sherlock. It still came as a shock to their friends when John walked into a room and a tall, dark figure wasn't standing right beside him.

It came as a shock to John, too. The mornings were lonely without Sherlock, and the days were painful. It had been almost a year since Sherlock died. Mrs. Hudson only occasionally let her face fall. Lestrade offered himself no sadness, only a forlorn, weariness. Anderson didn't pretend to be remotely sad; if anything, he felt guilty happiness. Donovan was a little more sympathetic, but really only for John. Mycroft...John had no idea about Mycroft. It was possible that Sherlock's brother was the only one who felt the same kind of pain he did.

But John knew that wasn't quite true. It wasn't any kind of pain John had felt before. He'd seen friends - close ones - get blown up, shot, and injured beyond repair in war. He'd gotten back to "normal" so much faster. The only explanation John would offer himself was that Sherlock had helped him cope. He had no one now, not a consulting detective, not a flatmate, not a best friend. What he had was alone, and alone ate at him.

A knock at the door reminded John of Sherlock's having shot the lock off. Looking out the window, he saw Molly standing on the stoop. Molly's visits were always slightly awkward. John couldn't pinpoint why, but he dreaded them all the same. There was a constant clot in the air, like Molly was trying to say something but couldn't. She never stayed very long. Now, she stepped up the stairs as Mrs. Hudson let her in. John watched the wallpaper even closer.

"Hello, John," Molly greeted him. "I've just come to give you this." She held out a basket of food. "My sister gave it to me, and I didn't have any use for it. I thought you might," she explained. The basket was placed on the coffee table. John nodded to her. His mouth remained shut. A smile was not attempted.

After standing awkwardly for a moment, Molly piped up again. "Okay. Well, um, goodbye. I'll see you soon." John's eyes followed her out. The door shut again.

The basket sat on the coffee table, beckoning. How long had it been since John had eaten? He couldn't remember. It brought back memories of him and Sherlock eating in those cafes on cases. Food was avoided until it couldn't be put off any longer. The muffin sitting on top of the basket really did not want to be put off.

Hoisting himself up from his seat, leaning heavily on his cane, John made his way to the muffin. He picked it up and took a bite. Its taste barely registered, but it was still good. John found some bread and jam farther down in the basket. Jam. He loved jam, why hadn't he had some lately? He'd have to fix that.

When the muffin was a pile of crumbs and the jam jar was half empty, John turned back to the wall. He hated to waste all his days, doing this, wallowing. It just didn't seem possible to move on.

What else can you do when the only thing you're sure of is taken away?


	2. Mr Doctor

The clinic was welcoming, a tiny piece of John's life handed back. He was a doctor, he healed people. Never mind that he was unable to heal himself. Helping the people who trudged in lifted his spirits a tiny bit. Sarah looked out for him here, too. It was nice to see Sarah again. Sometimes he remembered their first date, at the circus, when Sarah had almost died. How he'd been mistaken for Sherlock. John had to laugh at that – he was nothing like Sherlock, not even a little. Of course, the memories would flood in when he remembered this. Various Sherlock things, the arrogance, the brilliance, and the soft spot he would sometimes show. The determination.

Images of Sherlock's fall would cloud John's head. He grounded himself in medical charts and procedures, curing sniffles and coughs. He handed out prescriptions and fought off the memories. His therapist told him to let them in. He had to let them crowd him so that he would stop feeling their pain. "It will get better," she'd told him. He responded, "Bullshit." John stopped going after that. Sherlock had been right about the therapist, she stunk. If he let the memories in, they debilitated him. He barely trusted himself to go for milk without having a nervous breakdown now.

"Hi Mr. Doctor," a young girl said. She looked about seven. "Are you gonna cure my booboo?"

John smiled at her. He had a soft spot for kids. Probably why he could put up with Sherlock's childish behaviour, Mrs. Hudson had joked. Now, John peered around the corner, looking for the girl's mother. He saw her rushing down the hall, headed for the toddler. "Yeah, sure," he told her. "What sort of booboo have you got?"

"I fell," the girl sighed. "Mummy says my arm bone's broke. She says you gonna put plaster on it."

"Okay," John motioned the girl into the exam room. Her mother ran up. "Broken arm?" he asked her.

"Yes, so sorry, she runs off like that all the time," The tired woman gazed at her daughter and sashayed into the room. "Don't you ever do that again!" she shouted. "If you ever run off again, you won't see sunlight again!"

John shuddered. He felt sorry for the worried mother, but he knew she was being harsh. Quickly, he stepped in. "Let me just take you to the plaster room, then," he said, taking the girl's hand. "By the way, what's your name?"

"Amelie."

"Amelie. That's a nice name. Like a storybook princess. I'm Dr. Watson."

"Nice to meet you," she giggled. "I like to play princess, but Mummy always tells me it's not real and I shouldn't be playing."

John sighed. He was liking the woman less and less. Carefully, he wrapped the girl's arm up and gave her a sling. She held up the light blue plaster, marveling at it. John gave her a pat on the head and let her pick out a sticker. A grin split her face. "I wish all my patients were as cheery as you," John laughed. A laugh! A real one!

Amelie looked up at John. "You're handsome when you smile," she whispered. "Will you sign my cast?" A marker was held in her tiny fingers. John took it and tentatively wrote, _Dr. Watson_ on the blue material. "Thanks!" Amelie skipped off the her mother, who was scowling and tapping her watch.

Sara tapped John's shoulder. "She's right, you know. You're handsome when you smile. Should do that more often." Before John could respond, she was back at her desk shuffling papers and making phone calls.

John shook his head. He could feel the sadness creeping up on him, ready to pounce, but he held it at bay. Today had been a good day. He wasn't going to let it be taken.

….

John was just leaving the clinic when his mobile rung. Lestrade's tone was urgent, telling John where to meet him. "I know this is usually Sherlock's thing, John, but this one's asking for you." Sighing, John hailed a cab and related the address Lestrade gave him. Part of him was excited; he had missed this, catching criminals, going to crime scenes. But the other part knew it wouldn't be the same without Sherlock, without the deductions – and that part was only sad.

John stepped out of the cab onto a street washed in police lights, crawling with crime-scene tape. Anderson and Donovan were arguing near the door as John stepped through. He could see Lestrade ahead, bent over a body on the kitchen floor. A bright crimson pool spread around the woman's head. John stepped carefully around her splayed limbs, keeping from contaminating any evidence. He looked down at the woman's face, then at Lestrade in surprise. "Oh, God. I saw her, just this morning…She was bringing her daughter in…"

"I know," Lestrade replied.

"You – what? You know?" John's puzzled look turned back to the woman.

"Her daughter was the one to call police. She hid when we came – poor thing's traumatized, seeing her mom shot. Before she hid, though, we saw her cast. Dr Watson."

"Where is she?"

…

The stairs protested John's ascension. The house was old, in a neighbourhood of old houses. Amelie's mother would be just another ghost haunting this place. John was almost creeped out, looking down the dim hallway, lit only by the red and blue police lights. He pushed open a few doors; bathroom, closet, guest room...With a creak, the old door swung open. The blue walls were the shade of a robin's egg. A patchwork quilt adorned the bed, covered by stuffed animals. A few random articles of clothing littered the floor, a rocking chair stood in a corner. Police lights slipped in through the curtains. He didn't see the girl.

Peering around the room, John saw her. Curled in a shaking ball on the bed, squeezed into the corner. She clutched a stuffed animal in her small hands, eyes red from crying. Looking up with a catch in her breath upon hearing John, she breathed, "Doctor Watson?"

"It's me. The Detective Inspector, Lestrade, called me." He paused. "Amelie, you were so brave to call the police. I'm so sorry you had to do that." He knew he wasn't doing wonderfully with comforting her, but he didn't know what to say.

Looking at her, so small, so lost, John knew one thing for sure. He wasn't going to leave her.


	3. Crumbling

**Sorry, forgot about the author notes. Just here apologising for any discrepancies in here. I'm not British, but in the spirit of British telly, I set my spell check to UK. Unfortunately, I'm still not British, have never been there, and don't know loads about England.**

John picked the little girl up in his arms. It felt natural for him to hold her, her tiny body fitting into his shoulders. He smoother her hair and carried her down the groaning steps. Lestrade looked up with that signature look of his. John nodded. He understood now. The girl's plaster, with his name on it, had asked for him. The woman downstairs was her mother. John remembered the smiling face bouncing into the clinic that morning. Now, Amelie's face was drawn, streaked in tears, and covered by frizzy hair. John smoothed it out of her face again, wishing those eyes would open and smile at him. They stayed shut tight, as if warding away the world.

John settled Amelie into a cab. Her feet were stuck in sneakers, her jeans and t-shirt the same ones she'd gone to the clinic in. That was a million years ago now. John felt his heart go out to her. He felt so sorry for her. He knew how hard it was. They'd both lost someone.

Lestrade strode out to the cab. "Where're you going?"

"To 221B."

"We need to question her."

"Tomorrow."

"Why are you taking her home with you?

"I'm not leaving her to be taken someplace completely unfamiliar. She at least knows who I am. More or less."

Lestrade sighed. He didn't like it, but he knew John wouldn't let anything happen to the girl. "John," he started. He didn't know how to finish that sentence.

"I know." John climbed into the cab. "221B Baker Street," he told the cabbie. The cab rolled away from the scene. Amelie's head nodded with the car as it turned corners. Slowly, one of her eyes peeked open. "Hi." John didn't know what else to say to her after that. "I'm taking you to my flat, if that's okay. You'll be safe there."

Amelie's eyes took in John's face. "Dr. Watson. They saw my plaster," she whispered. "You came for me." Amelie broke down in sobs. "You came for me."

"Of course I did," John mumbled, gathering her in his arms. He felt so much pain for the young girl in his arms, for a moment, his own was dulled. Sherlock, for once, did not matter. What mattered was comforting Amelie, and keeping her safe. John rocked her slightly, hugging her while she sobbed. "You're safe now. You're safe."

...

It was well past midnight when John went to bed. Lestrade had come around eight (murders were never timely). He'd been at the crime scene for over two hours. Amelie had refused sleep. She was terrified of what might happen if her guard dropped. John tucked her into his bed, sitting with her until her eyes fluttered shut. He allowed only a single tear to fall.

John was exhausted. He wanted only to fall into bed and never got out. The last time he'd been so tired, Sherlock had been chasing a killer, and in dire need of John's help. At least, that's what the detective had said. John knew Sherlock would've been fine without him, but still he was reluctant to go to bed. Now, as John looked at 221B, he thought of sleep and only sleep. His bed was taken. He couldn't bring himself to sleep in Sherlock's room. He couldn't. The sheets would still smell of Sherlock. The memory of tucking a drugged Sherlock in –

No. He'd sleep on the couch.

...

Amelie woke early the next morning. She sat up in bed, cheeks still wet with last night's tears. She remembered the sound – a loud, echoing explosion – and the terrified shriek. She remembered the police, the arms of the doctor. He'd waited for her to fall asleep before leaving. Amelie smiled a tiny bit. She didn't feel happy, but she knew she was safe. At least for now. Lethargically, Amelie dragged herself out of bed and pattered down the stairs to the kitchen.

Looking out, she saw John sprawled on the couch, half falling off. She smiled a little. He'd given her his bed. Carefully, Amelie pulled open the fridge. She found some milk and cereal. Pouring a bowl, the tiny girl sat at the kitchen table.

John woke to the sound of a clinking spoon. He saw Amelie. All of a sudden, he was bent over, rubbing his brow, warding off the memories. Sherlock's equipment cluttering the table. No food to be found in the house. A severed head in the fridge. John was questioning his sanity when he felt a soft hand on his shoulder. "Dr. Watson?"

John lifted his head. "Amelie. Sorry."

"Are you okay? Why did you sleep on the couch?" She looked down the hall. "Isn't there a bedroom down there?"

John sighed. He couldn't explain, not now. "That's...the spare. I was too tired to make it up. I'm fine. How's your breakfast?"

"It's good." Amelie sat next to John. "Do I have to talk to the detective inspector?" John nodded. "I don't want to," Amelie stated.

"He can help catch your mum's killer," John explained. He knew he was being blunt, but he knew Amelie would see through it if he danced around the subject. Blunt it was then.

"She wasn't even my mum," Amelie sighed. "Just someone to watch me. My real mum died years ago. I never met her."

John nodded. He could see Amelie's face crumbling. "Shhhh," he soothed, pulling her to his chest in a hug. "It'll turn out okay."


	4. Sherlock

John was silent on the way home. Amelie was pensive, chewing her lip as she thought. John glanced at her every so often. Her dirty clothes had been replaced by a clean green top and deep blue jeans. She looked like any normal kid, not one struggling to stay on her feet. Somehow, Amelie had escaped to the morgue, looking for her mother. John saw her in his mind's eye, looking up at Molly innocently. Good old Molly hadn't let her see the corpse, but she'd braided Amelie's hair.

"Amelie?" John asked. "Why did you go down to the morgue?"

"To see my mother."

"You said she wasn't really your mom."

"She's not. My teachers called her my guardian. I called her Mother 'cause I didn't know what else to call her."

"Okay. Why did you go to see her, though? You're smart – don't tell me you didn't know she was a corpse…" John questioned his words. He didn't want to scare Amelie, or make any grief she felt worse.

"I wanted to make sure she was dead. I thought maybe she wasn't, and I have to go back home with her, and that would've been okay. I think. But I didn't wanna live with her anymore. She was mean."

John knew better than to question seven-year-old logic. It didn't make sense to him, but that didn't matter to John at all. What mattered to John was keeping Amelie safe from the killer. He wanted to help her get back to the cheery girl from the clinic. The very image of Amelie, huddled in that corner after witnessing a murder, sent shivers down John's spine. He had pieced together only a few things: A) Amelie hadn't liked her "mother" B) She'd been more traumatized by the murder than the death C) She needed him to let her know that was okay.

"Dr. Watson?"

"Mm?"

"Can I call you John?"

"Yes, that's fine." Personally, John missed being John, not Dr. Watson. Sherlock had never called him Watson.

"Okay. John, what happened to Sherlock?"

There it was. The question – the inevitable question – John had been dreading. He didn't want to explain to a child – let alone this one – about suicide. Why someone would commit suicide – it would be asked. John would have to say that people committed suicide when they were too sad, and the world was too much to bear. He hadn't admitted to himself that Sherlock hadn't been happy. He'd been happy because of Sherlock. Was it unreasonable to believe Sherlock was happy because of him? It was obvious Sherlock had always been unstable, at least a little. But not to the extent of jumping off St Bart's. Then, there was the complexity of explaining Moriarty, and the fact that his body had been of the rooftop. John was convinced Moriarty forced Sherlock's hand.

_It's a trick. It's all just a magic trick._

John felt like his friend had been trying to tell him something; that he'd been tricked. He refused to believe Sherlock had never been extraordinary. It wasn't possible. It just wasn't. No one could fake being Sherlock.

By then, John had been silent for a few minutes. Amelie's face was concerned. "John? Are you okay? It's fine – you don't have to answer!"

John blinked, looked up. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Um…"

Amelie smiled. She wanted to cheer John up. "I thought I broke you!"

A smile. What was it about Amelie? Since he'd met her, John had both laughed and smiled – _sincerely._ Not just to convince Mrs. Hudson he was fine. John reached for Amelie's hand. "I promise, when all this is over, I'll tell you what happened to Sherlock."

Pleased, Amelie shrugged and leaned against the window. The cab slowed at 221B's door and Amelie hopped out. She waited patiently at the door as John unlocked it. "It feels good to be home," she whispered, stepping in.

…

Mycroft Holmes had placed John Watson under strict surveillance after Sherlock's death. He used CCTV cameras all over London, as well as a few hidden in the flat. He had people throughout the city, watching John. Mycroft wouldn't explain the importance to a single one of them; but they all knew. John Watson was the only one in the world to care for Sherlock as much as (or more than) Mycroft himself.

Every day, Mycroft spent at least a half hour watching John himself. He let his people fill him in on the rest. It was with his own eyes, however, that Mycroft saw the little girl for the first time. She appeared at John's side while he fished his key out of his pocket. Two braids hung down her back. Surely not John's handiwork. The girl bounced slightly from foot to foot, as if excited, but her face held an age Mycroft knew all too well. Sadness ages people better than a hundred years.

"Anthea," Mycroft called. "Who is that?"

"I don't know," Anthea answered, looking up from her phone. "A little girl. Not John's I'd imagine."

"No, she's not, look at her! John had no part in fathering her. My question, though, is who did. Why would John bring someone else's daughter home?"

Anthea nodded. "Puzzling."

"I believe Lestrade can help?"

"I'll be back when you get off the phone. I'm going for dinner," Anthea called.

…...

Unbeknownst to John or Mycroft, someone else was watching 221B. A girl in raggedy dress. "A young girl. Maybe seven or eight," she reported, speaking into a phone. "I don't know, he just brought her home. Saw her yesterday, too, only then he carried her in. Saw Mycroft, too, he'll be checking on it."

"_Thank you. I always told John the Homeless Network was trustworthy…"_


	5. Broken

John opened a Chinese food box for dinner that night. He spaced out for a moment, thinking of the _Blind Banker_ case, as he'd christened it on his blog. It amazed him how many things reminded him of Sherlock. A man in a long coat, violin music, scarves, Chinese food…The memories assaulted him at random, it seemed. If anything, they served as a reminder of how much Sherlock had taken over John's life. If the Earth went around the sun, then John's life revolved around Sherlock. Making sure he slept and ate, following him on cases, admiring his intelligence and stupidity. All in a day's work – until recently.

Amelie's sweet face brought John back to the present, where Sherlock was but a shadow. She tried eating with chopsticks, slurped noodles, and made a general mess. John had never had as much fun as when he cleaned the soy sauce off the table. Sometimes, he would catch Amelie lapsing into her own sadness, in between the smiles. She would look into space, not noticing him for a moment or two.

"John?" she asked. "Where's my home now?"

Taken aback, John scrambled to find a suitable answer. "You have to know, you can't go back to your old house. For now, you can stay here. For a while, if you want. Eventually, they'll find a relative or someone for you to live with." Not a satisfying answer for either of them, but the best John could give.

The question scared John a little. Amelie bounced between her normal cheer and depressive states. Whenever a new something hit her – like not having a home – she would be quiet and still until John made her smile again. It became his mission to make her smile, so that by the third day at 221B for Amelie, John worked full-time.

His own periods of sadness didn't come less often. They dulled only the slightest bit. John hated himself for feeling so torn apart. He was a string man – there was no reason he couldn't get over Sherlock. Right?

…

Sherlock Holmes waited for news of the girl. It was slow – he couldn't ask Mycroft or Lestrade for information – and it was painful, the not-knowing. Even Sherlock's brain couldn't come up with a suitable theory as to why a little girl had taken up residence with John.

In his pocket, Sherlock's phone rang. "Hello? Do you have any news?"

"Sherlock, it's Molly. Your Network contacted me, said something about the little girl?"

"Yes! Do you know anything about her?"

"Her mother was murdered. She'd gone to the clinic where John works earlier that day for a plaster. For now, she's staying with John…she doesn't have anywhere else to go."

"And John?"

Molly knew exactly what Sherlock meant. Ever since she'd helped Sherlock fake his death, she'd kept him updated on John's condition. "He's a lot better. Remember last week? When he wasn't doing anything but staring at the wall? He's moved on from that, at least. I've seen him joking with her, making her laugh. He's laughing again, Sherlock. She's making him happy. But he'd still broken. You can see it in his face. He looks a hundred years old, stares off into space sometimes. I know it's because he's thinking of you."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, digesting this. "But he's doing better?"

"Yes. She's helping heal him, Sherlock, but it's not enough. It won't be enough until he knows you're alive again."

"Then I'll have to tell him."

….

John's neck was stiff from sleeping on the couch. He still couldn't bring himself to sleep in Sherlock's bed. He wouldn't do it. Amelie had grown used to seeing him fallen on the floor in the morning when she got her cereal. More often than not, he woke pressed to the carpet. John disliked sleeping on the floor. Amelie, however found it wildly hilarious. Her laughter was the best sound in the world to wake up to. John wasn't giving it up for anything.

Every day, he thought of another way to make Amelie laugh. Sometimes, he would tell her a funny story. The stories were always awful; he couldn't say a thing about the army to a seven year old, and Sherlock…that topic wasn't even in the realm of possibility. But Amelie always listened. She laughed when she was supposed to and pretended everything was okay.

It wasn't.

John knew for sure that Amelie wasn't okay one morning, a dark, dreary one, when she started talking about death. Rubbing his back and cursing the floor, he heard Amelie's soft voice. She stared at the sky out the window. "Is that where they go, the dead people?" She paused. "Is that where Sherlock went?"

John resisted the urge to tell her Sherlock probably went much farther south. "Heaven, you mean?"

"Heaven. I want to go there and be an angel," Amelie said. "They get to watch the people down here, instead of being one of us."

John's face contorted into surprise and fear. He had to be being paranoid, right? It was just his newfound fear of anything even remotely related to death acting up, right? He had no idea – and that's what scared him most. Slowly, John rose and crossed the room to where Amelie stood. "Let me tell you a story," he breathed.


	6. Littlest of Angels

"My mom used to tell my sister, Harry, this story whenever she was feeling really defeated. She had a lot of days like that." John exhaled. "Do you want to hear it?"

_Littlest of Angels_

_A long time ago, angels walked the earth with humans and animals. Their wings spread wide when they flew. People went to the angels for help. Sometimes they needed a cure for sickness. Other times they just needed someone to listen. No matter what they needed, there was an angel to help them. The angel in charge, Cassie, loved the humans. She spent all her time helping them. She didn't even sleep. For a hundred years she went on like that, helping everyone. Eventually the humans forgot about the other angels. They only wanted Cassie to help them. The other angels didn't mind. They spent their days playing and laughing while Cassie worked._

_For a long time, everyone was happy. Cassie liked being the helper of mankind. The other angels liked having freedom to do what they wanted. Cassie was getting busier and busier, though, and she couldn't keep up with the humans' needs anymore. She pleaded with the other angels for help, but they loved playing too much. Only a handful of them offered to help Cassie. They flew to the most remote villages, helping people high in the mountains or low in the valleys. They fought their way through storms and tangled jungles._

_Cassie watched them struggle. She started to get mad at the others, who still refused to help. She had worked for years, and when she asked for them, they denied her. The ones who volunteered lived lives of constant work. They couldn't fill all the orders. Every day, Cassie got a little angrier._

_One day, the littlest angel came to Cassie. Her wings were broken, and she could no longer fly. Her feet were black with dirt, her face streaked with ash, and her dress tattered. "What happened to you?" Cassie demanded._

"_I was helping a village, a long ways away, and I was caught in a storm. I don't know what it was. All of a sudden, the sky was wiped out. The humans who didn't get help were angry. They thought we were playing favourites. They hurled firebombs. I barely escaped, and everyone in the village perished. I walked back here, in this humble state, to ask your forgiveness. I wish you to forgive me this," the angel explained._

_"Forgive you? The humans did this! They shall pay!" Cassie shouted._

"_Please!" the little angel cried. "The humans were wrong. But if our other angels had helped, this would never have happened. Punish those who ignored the needy."_

_Cassie thought about this. "Fine. I confine all angels to the clouds!"_

_The little angel spoke up again. "I asked you not to punish the humans. They still need help. I want to help them. Please. My wings are already broken; take them from me so I may live among the humans and help them."_

_Cassie was shocked by the little angel's request. "You can't do it alone."_

"_She won't be alone," another angel piped up. One after another, they stood up and gathered behind the little angel. Every angel that helped Cassie stood and offered up their wings._

_Cassie agreed. She took their wings and let them live amongst the humans. They lived with men, helping them, saving them. They would never save everyone, but the angels knew every person counted._

_Today, angels still roam the earth. They don't know it, but they're the descendants of the little angel and all her friends. The only way a human can tell an angel from a human is by their laugh. An angel's laugh has the strength to heal people. If you can make an angel laugh, you will be healed of whatever ails you._

"My mother used to tell Harry she was an angel," John explained. "And I'm telling you. You're my angel, Amelie."

"I am?"

"Yes. When you showed up, I couldn't do anything. I was too sad. You changed that. I laugh when you do. You don't need to go to heaven to be an angel. You're already one, right here on earth."


	7. Thank You

Mycroft stood in the doorway of Lestrade's office, tapping his fingers on the handle of his umbrella. Lestrade looked up from his desk and rolled his eyes. "Why do you carry that thing everywhere?" he asked. Mycroft did not grace the question with an answer. Instead, he walked to the window.

After a moment of watching the city, Mycroft turned back to the Detective Inspector. "John," he started, "has, it seems, a new flatmate. Would you happen to have any information about this?" He turned back to Lestrade.

"Really, Mycroft, you could just ask _him_. If you didn't have this bloody power complex." He took a sip of his coffee. "But, since you're here, she's the stepdaughter of a woman currently paying Molly a visit. John's taken her in for the moment."

Mycroft nodded. "Thank you, Greg."

Lestrade smiled, "Happy to help." He reached behind his desk to pull out a small brown box. "Take it," he said, handing the package over. Mycroft reached for it, holding it with the hand not full of umbrella. He turned and walked out of the office.

On the street, Mycroft could hardly contain himself. He had helped Lestrade in a minor case a few days ago, and the DI had promised him…payment. In a matter of minutes, he had opened the package and found a piece of heaven – chocolate cake.

….

John and Amelie sat at the kitchen table. It still felt foreign to John to eat there; he expected it to be cluttered with Sherlock's things. Instead, they were all in Sherlock's old room. John couldn't bear to get rid of them. Amelie didn't ask questions about the empty room now. She was too busy jumping around the kitchen. Since John had told her Harry's bedtime story, she'd perked up a lot.

"Please can you make pancakes?" she begged. "Pleeeeaaaase?"

John looked down at her, excited as a puppy. Pancakes were her favourite, John had realized. He pulled out the pan, sending her into the living room to play on the computer. Amelie had read every post on John's blog when he accidentally left it up – not that John knew. He wouldn't talk about Sherlock, but Amelie was curious.

A few minutes later, John was seated across from Amelie at the table. His bread and jam was finished by then; he sat with a spoon, scooping jam into his mouth. Amelie had gotten used to John's love of jam. She happily munched pancakes, with the chocolate chips leaving brown streaks on her fingers. "Thank you, John!" Her smile was huge, never mind covered in chocolate.

John reached over with a napkin and rubbed a little dribble of chocolate from Amelie's cheek. She squealed and jumped off her chair, refusing to clean her face. John chased after her, finally catching up and carrying her over his shoulder and plunking her down on the couch. Amelie's laughter filled the flat.

The carefree moment was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Mycroft was already up the stairs, walking into the flat. John sighed. He didn't want to deal with Sherlock's brother. Even though he knew Mycroft missed Sherlock too, he was, truly, an iceman. Unbeknownst to John, someone else was annoyed with Mycroft. Someone watching a camera he'd hidden in the flat when John was at the clinic the day before.

And Sherlock was not happy that John's light-hearted fun had been trampled by his brother.

…..

Sherlock was more determined than ever to tell John he was alive. He just didn't know how to do it. What if John reacted badly? After all, it had been a year. Sherlock knew he'd had no right to keep it from John this long. Moly warned Sherlock that Moriarty's right-hand man, Seb Moran, had never been found. He still posed a threat, and Sherlock's being alive would pose a threat to him.

"What if Moran comes after you?" she argued. "John would be in danger if he were with you."

"He's in danger without me to protect him, too."

"What about the girl, Amelie?" Molly had grown fond of the girl. John was a bit more open to visits from friends now. It was amazing how much he'd changed in just three days. Sherlock's reappearance could ruin all that. John thought his friend was dead. He could think he was hallucinating, or that he'd gone insane. There were a lot of things that could go wrong. But Molly had to think of Sherlock, too. She knew he was crumbling, bit by tiny bit. John had been a shoulder to lean on, someone Sherlock relied on for approval, company, friendship. That left just the one variable Molly couldn't figure out.

Amelie. Would John still want her to live in 221B? Would Sherlock? What would happen to her? If John were to break down, Sherlock wouldn't be able to care for her.

Sherlock was thinking the same thing. But he'd never been unfamiliar with making the unpopular decision. "We'll have to see," he told Molly. "But I can't go another day like this."

Molly nodded. She understood what had to happen. It had been inevitable. "Tomorrow," she agreed. "When he gets home from work. I can bring Amelie to my place so you'll be alone."

Sherlock glanced at her. A year ago, she'd been a friend with a silly crush on him. Now, he respected her. She had helped him when he sorely needed it. She'd kept a secret for him – one that no one should have had to keep. "Thank you, Molly." Sherlock let his guard down for a moment. "Thank you so much."


	8. Be Careful

**Sorry for the long wait between the seventh chapter and now! I got very side-tracked and…yeah. But I've been trying to get a few chapters up now. I keep forgetting to add my notes, too. Whoops. This chapter will probably be very short, but I promise the next will be a bit longer. I have the plot for this all planned out, so the chapters**_**should**_**start coming a little faster.**

John looked down at Amelie, then up at Mycroft. "Amelie," he mumbled, "take the computer upstairs to my room, okay? I have to talk.."

"Who is that, John?" He hadn't explained to her about Sherlock's brother yet. It hadn't come up. John regretted that now. The girl seemed genuinely scared.

"That," John announced, "is the British Government…Sherlock's brother." He handed Amelie the laptop and patted her back, sending her towards the stairs. He knew she would settled herself outside the door, listening to every word. "Hello, Mycroft."

"John." The minor government official glanced around the flat. "I came to meet the girl."

"Mycroft, just because you spy on me doesn't mean you have to make it obvious."

"Lestrade told me."

John sighed, "Amelie's guardian was killed. Lestrade is working on it. He told me he'd update me when they made a major breakthrough, but for the moment I'm letting Amelie stay here."

"I already knew that, John."

"Than what do you want? I have to go back to the clinic soon; I'm only on my lunch break. You, of all people, wouldn't come here just to meet Amelie."

Mycroft knew it was true. He hadn't wanted to tell John just yet, though….He wanted John to have just one more day of somewhat-normality. But it couldn't be helped. "John, Moriarty wasn't the only one. He had a _friend_, an ex-army bloke named Sebastian Moran. Moran can handle a gun, and Sherlock told me – the day before he died – that if anything happened to him, Moran would go after you."

"Why didn't you tell me this!" John thundered.

"I didn't think much of it. It was strange, but Moran didn't pose much of a threat. Until now. I'm on my way to tell Lestrade that he's been seen throughout the city. And he might be a danger to you after all."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying…Be careful."

…

Lestrade couldn't sleep that night. He had thought all this business with Moriarty was over. But, no. A new threat. Moran.

Mycroft couldn't sleep that night. He had lost his brother, and now, the only person Sherlock had ever cared fot was in danger.

Sherlock couldn't sleep that night. He would tell John everything the next day. He would be a part of the doctor's life again. Wasn't that what he wanted?

Amelie couldn't sleep that night. She'd heard everything Mycroft said. If John were in danger, he'd send her away to keep her safe, and she'd lose him. If John were in danger, she had the right to be fearful.

John couldn't sleep that night. He didn't want Amelie to be hurt. He didn't care so much about himself now. He'd join Sherlock, if he died. But Amelie was just a kid! And she needed him. He had to keep her safe. He had to try to keep himself safe.

**I need reviews like John needs jam.**


	9. Breakdown

**This chapter will be devoted entirely to John and Sherlock's reunion. Enjoy!**

It had been easy for Molly to convince John to let Amelie stay at her flat. Molly could tell he was shaken up, which only made her feel worse. Whatever had shaken him, it was nothing compared to the shock he'd get when he got back from work. The seconds ticked off in her head…Only an hour now…thirty minutes…Sherlock would be walking up to the door…

Molly turned to Amelie. The girl was happily watching telly. _I'm sorry_, Molly thought, _if this means you have to give John up._

…..

Sherlock arrived at the flat a few minutes early. He didn't want to walk in on John; he wanted to be there when John got home. He wanted John to come home to him.

221B was just like he remembered it. Except, of course, the glaring absence of his things. Even without his stuff scattered about, walking back into 221B was coming home. Sherlock couldn't believe he'd survived so long away from Mrs Hudson. From John.

Sherlock walked down the hallway, into his old bedroom. He hadn't put a camera here; he didn't know what it would look like now. Probably John got rid of everything, to keep the painful reminders away. Probably there was nothing left.

Pushing open the door, Sherlock almost gasped. Everything – _everything_ – was exactly how he'd left it. His sock index hadn't been touched. The same papers – Moriarty's "evidence" of Rich Brook's existence – were lying on the bed. His dressing gown was hung were he'd left it. It was _exactly_ the same. The thing to change was the pile of science equipment and other things John had moved from the living room and kitchen. John had kept everything, absolutely everything.

Sentiment, a chemical defect found on the losing side, was invading Sherlock's brain. He couldn't deny it touched him to see his room like this. Why wouldn't John throw his things away? Surely if the roles had been reversed, Sherlock wouldn't have kept anything of John's. Why wouldn't he?

Silently, Sherlock slipped out of his room and back into the living room. John would be home any minute now.

…..

Mycroft sat at his desk, bored. Until, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something. It couldn't be. Could it? No. No, no! It wasn't possible – but there was Sherlock standing in the middle of 221B, oblivious to the camera watching his every move.

Mycroft was reeling. "Anthea….?"

…..

John paid the cabbie and unlocked the door to 221B. He was exhausted after his day at the clinic. Who knew so many people could get the sniffles? John was relieved Amelie was at Molly's. He was free to take a nap. As soon as he got upstairs he'd make himself a cup of tea, then he'd sleep…The thought was so welcoming for a moment John didn't see the dark shape in the armchair.

And then it registered.

John stumbled back into the doorframe. "Nooo," he whimpered. "No, it was getting better…" He scrubbed his face with his hands. _Just shut your eyes, when they open he'll be gone…_John closed his eyes. He was aware of his rapidly beating heart, tearing into a million pieces…_Open your eyes, John._

He was still there. "Oh, god, oh, god, no, please, no…" He'd done it, he'd gone insane. In no time, he'd be taken to the mental hospital, and Amelie would be on her own. "YOU'RE DEAD!" he screamed, as if it might make the apparition disappear. "I SAW YOU! YOU WERE DEAD! YOU _ARE_DEAD!"

Sherlock knew this would happen, he knew it. Why had he been so adamant to push this on John? Why hadn't he waited?

Because it wasn't just about John. It was about Sherlock.

"John…" Sherlock whispered. "John, please…"

There was no calming John. How had his life come to this? To a mental breakdown in his flat, the flat he'd shared with the man now haunting him. "GO AWAY! Please, please…please." John was slowly sinking to the floor, cowering from the image of his friend.

It was Sherlock's turn to feel his heart tear. It was killing him to watch this. Slowly, Sherlock walked to where John lay in a crumpled heap. He carefully, gently as he could, put his arms around John. "John, it's me. I'm not dead. It was just a trick…Just a magic trick."

The voice was so familiar. The smell was Sherlock's, everything was Sherlock's. How could a hallucination be so real? It couldn't, John knew it couldn't, but…."Sherlock?" His voice was so shaky, so unsure, it hurt Sherlock. He smoothed John's hair.

"It's me, John. It's really me." Ever so tenderly, he picked John up and helped him to the armchair. John mumbled to himself, trying to puzzle out what was happening to him. Sherlock threw his coat on the chair, not caring where it landed. John gave a start when he saw Sherlock without his coat. In hiding, Sherlock hadn't been able to dress like himself. He wore jeans and a red t-shirt, nothing like his usual clothes. It was evidence, Sherlock realized, that John was hallucinating. "It's me, John," he assured. "I had to disguise myself. It's me."

He boiled the kettle and handed John a hot cup of tea. John took the tea gratefully, but none of the shock had eased form his face. Deep worry lines were etched on his features. Sherlock saw a single tear, running down his cheek. It was undoing him, knowing he'd caused this. "John, I'm so sorry I let you think I was dead. I should never have done it. I didn't want to. There was no way to tell you, no way around it. I tired, I really did, with my note…but I knew it wouldn't be enough. Moriarty…he was going to kill you, and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, if his assassins didn't see me jump."

Sherlock paused. He was debating sharing this, every word fought its way out. Would this overload John? Would it prove Sherlock was alive?

"I knew what he wanted from me, John. I got Molly to help. I'm not going to go over everything….I can hardly remember, all I cared about was that we all lived. All of us. We all have to be okay."

John hadn't spoken. Slowly, so slowly it was barely noticeable, the shock was fading. Fading enough for John to take in Sherlock's words, to process them. As the shock faded, john started to weep. He sobbed, huge, wracking sobs that brought Sherlock's arms around him once more. Then, quick as they'd appeared, the tears faded. Replaced by a hot anger, the tears dried on John's face. He rose from his chair, and, of course, Sherlock stood too.

"Are you mad at me, John?"

Sherlock's answer was a punch, hard and full of everything John had lived with for the past year. "YOU BASTARD !" John screamed. "WHY DID YOU LET ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD?" Suddenly, the flash of anger passed. John collapsed into the arms of the still-reeling Sherlock. The tears fell from his face again, hot and salty and loud, so loud, so very loud. They were the only thing you could hear. Through a tear-blurred voice, John managed, "You're alive. You're alive. Don't ever, ever, leave me again.

Sherlock hugged John, held him close. He had never done so before. Sherlock himself felt like falling to bits. He'd done this to John, so he had to mend it. Could he? Sherlock tried to calm John. He refused to let his body shake, he let only a single tear fall from his eyes.


	10. We'll Be Okay

**This chapter was really great to write. I hope you like reading it as much as I liked writing it**

John seemed glued to Sherlock. At every moment, some part of him had to be touching Sherlock. A hand, resting on Sherlock's shoulder. The gentle weight of the army doctor as he leaned on the detective. It was as if John feared Sherlock would disappear again if contact were broken. Sherlock caught him looking up at him as if he were waiting for just that. A puff of smoke, and the best friend john had ever had would leave again. Sherlock took John by the shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. "I will _never_ leave again," he promised.

He and john sat on the couch. John leaned into Sherlock, needing something to hold up. He thought only fleetingly of Amelie; realizing she would stay the night at Molly's, but then his thoughts were back to Sherlock. There was so much to be told, so many things to be explained. Sherlock did his best to answer John's questions. John didn't seem to care how Sherlock survived the fall; all that mattered was that he was there. He asked if Sherlock knew anything about Moran. He asked what Sherlock had done. Sherlock told him he'd never been far away. He'd been protecting John as best he could from a distance. Sherlock asked about Amelie. He realized how important the girl was to John. They spoke, back and forth, until their voices were worn thin.

Several times, John could only look at Sherlock. He couldn't believe it, that Sherlock was alive, and he'd come back for John. He'd never left John, and he was so, so sorry for the lies. "I wanted to tell you every day, John, but I didn't know if it was safe."

The night sky was no longer pitch black, but turning slightly gray. John's eyes were closing. Every time they drifted, John would blink and startle awake again, as if Sherlock would be gone when they opened again. Eventually, even Sherlock showed fatigue. He kept his eyes open, watching as John's slowly fell shut. The army doctor's breathing evened and steadied until Sherlock knew he was asleep. He knew he should call Molly, but he didn't want to wake john. He didn't want to get up. The warm shape of John, leaning against him, was the last thing Sherlock felt before he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

…..

Mycroft believed his eyes when he saw Sherlock standing in 221B. He did not move from his seat, but watched his brother to see what he would do. He saw the tearful reunion, the angry punch, the side of John he'd never witnessed. Mycroft saw it all, and he believed it was happening. He was not shocked. Wouldn't it be just like Sherlock to pull a trick like this? To lead everyone on, then swoop back in when it suited him?

Mycroft didn't know why it bothered him so much. It was two in the morning by the time he ripped himself away from the camera feed. Mycroft wasn't a man to dwell on things, but he couldn't get the image of his brother, calmly standing in 221B, out of his head. He'd seen, too, the tear on Sherlock's face. Caring was not an advantage – so why did Mycroft bother?

It was a long, sleepless night. In the morning, Mycroft lifted his umbrella over his head. The pit-pat of raindrops was all he could hear as he hailed a cab. "221B Baker Street, please."

…

Dawn was just spreading its fingers over London. Sherlock and john were still curled on the couch, lying on top of each other. Mrs Hudson peered into the room to check and see if John had spent the night awake again and nearly fainted.

"Oh, Sherlock…" she whispered, the words dying on her lips. So soft, they were barely audible. She stood in the doorway a moment, hand to her throat, disbelieving. As her breath came back, Mrs Hudson registered the scene more fully. John – John knew. She smiled a bit at that. He deserved to be the first to know. Silent as a cat burglar, Mrs Hudson draped a blanket over the pair and started a pot of tea.

As she poured the tea into mugs, she heard a faint rustle from the living room. She heard the soft whisper, "Is this a blanket…who would put a blank- Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock gingerly stood up, his clothes rumpled from sleep. He laid John down again, eliciting a jumble of sleep-sounds from the man. Three of his long strides brought him to the doorway of the kitchen. "Sherlock!"

The consulting detective let his walls down. He hugged Mrs Hudson back when she flung her arms around him. "Mrs Hudson…You've made breakfast.." Sherlock paused. He was filled with emotion right then – Mrs Hudson, dear old Mrs Hudson – and it was an odd feeling. "Thank you."

"You're alive! Sherlock!" The old woman threw her arms around Sherlock again. "I've missed you."

"I missed you too, Mrs Hudson."

"You told John?"

"Last night."

"How did he take it?"

"Not as well as you are. He's okay now, I think."

_He'll be okay_, Sherlock thought. _**We'll**__be okay._


	11. Moran

Mrs Hudson, john, and Sherlock were all sitting in the living room of 221B. john looked at Sherlock with awe, still hoping his eyes weren't tricking him. Mrs Hudson cried as she smiled; she never thought she'd have to worry about bullet holes in her wall again. Sherlock looked from one to the other, fielding questions left and right.

Mid-question, he appeared. Mycroft's tall frame darkened the doorway as he leaned on his umbrella. "What's this?"

"Sherlock's come back and balance is being restored to the universe," John joked, remembering the Americans' break-in. Sherlock smiled, a small smile, at that. John had made a joke – if anything, it meant he wasn't going to break down.

Mycroft strode over to Sherlock. "You're looking awfully good for someone who fell off a roof."

"Mycroft…"

"So nice of you to tell us, brother dearest."

"Mycroft! It couldn't be helped."

John could feel an argument coming on. He jumped up, arms held out referee-style, to stop them fighting. Mycroft's face was dark, angry; Sherlock's apologetic but defensive. John looked from one of them to the other, back and forth…

"John? Why's Sherlock's brother here? Who is that man?"

At the voice of the little girl, both men stopped short. Their voice cut out as if someone had hit a mute button. John dropped his arms and inhaled. "That, Amelie, is my friend, Sherlock Holmes."

…

Lestrade had heeded Mycroft's warning and checked everywhere for Moran. The man was crafty, which only made him more dangerous. It was early in the morning, much too early to be at work, but Lestrade was sick and tired of Moriarty's games. Lestrade was tired, but he still had a while to wait before the results came back…The DI clicked open the internet and typed in the address of john's blog. Nothing new had been posted for a while, but John seemed like he was getting better. Checking the blog was Lestrade's way of inconspicuously checking up on John.

There were no new posts, but Lestrade saw a new comment on the last thing John had posted. He clicked to read.

In five seconds flat, Lestrade was grabbing his coat, out the door, in a cab.

….

John walked over to Amelie. "I thought he was dead," Amelie said, dropping her voice so only John could hear. "I know you didn't tell me, but I read your blog…I'm sorry…"

John knelt down in front of Amelie. "It's okay. I thought Sherlock was dead, too, but he wasn't. I'm sorry if that doesn't make sense…the point is, he's alive. Sherlock's alive."

"Does Sherlock live here?"

John hadn't even considered this. He'd taken it for granted that Sherlock would want to live at 221B. John looked over his shoulder to the tall figure. "If he wants too."

Molly stood awkwardly in the doorway during this exchange. "I'll – I'll just put Amelie's things here and leave."

John looked up, noticing her for the first time. "Molly…" His face was a mix of emotions. Molly get the sudden fear that John would be mad at her. Had Sherlock told him about her help? She needn't have worried. John's face softened and he breathed, "Thank you. For helping him. For keeping him alive."

Molly nodded curtly, turning on her heel to leave. Instead of disappearing down the hallway, Moly stopped dead in her tracks. Her way out was blocked by Detective Inspector Lestrade. As the DI took in the scene in front of him – Molly, Amelie, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, John, and _Sherlock_ – his mouth dropped open. "You," he said, pointing at Sherlock, "are not dead."

Sherlock held back a _That was worthy of Anderson._ He instead spoke up, "I had to pretend to be."

Lestrade acted as if this were perfectly normal. "You might not need to pretend," he replied.

"What makes you say that?"

Lestrade already had John's laptop out and loading the internet. He pulled up John's blog and pointed to the new comment. "There's this."

_**Hello boys. Come and play! – SM**_

"_SM._That's –"

"Sebastian Moran."


	12. Keep Me With You

John could only stare at that comment. _Hello boys. Come and play!_ It sounded so much like Moriarty. That was a threat long gone – it was Moran now, Moran who threatened to take everything from John. Lestrade and Sherlock were already discussing what it could mean, how to keep everyone safe. Mycroft was looking annoyed that he'd been interrupted. John felt like the ground was rolling underneath his feet, trying to pitch him off. He'd just gotten Sherlock back. He couldn't lose him again. The room spun, the sounds distorted. John's world had fallen apart once. Could it really be shredding again?

A weak tug on John's jumper brought the world careening back into focus. Amelie. She was in danger now, too. John put his hand over his eyes, wishing it would all just go away. "John." The words were so quiet John had to strain to hear them. "John." Amelie looked so small, in the middle of a room filled with adults – worried, scared adults. John smiled at her, trying to convince her everything would be okay. There was a reason he'd never become an actor. Amelie saw right through his façade. "Please, John, don't make me leave." John wanted to promise, but he wasn't in the habit of making promises he couldn't keep.

"I'm going to do whatever I have to so you'll be safe."

Lestrade rubbed his forehead. "This is all just bloody fantastic," he muttered. Sherlock looked to John and the small girl beside him. It had always been just him in danger; then it had been John, too. Sherlock would've been lying to himself if he said he minded that. Now, though, there was a very real possibility John would lose everything he cared about. John Watson was Sherlock Holmes' greatest weakness.

…

Eventually, Sherlock managed to shoo everyone out of 221B. That morning it had seemed like they had so much time. Time for Sherlock to get to know Amelie. Time for Sherlock to settle back into normal life. Time for John to stop looking like he'd seen a ghost. In a way, he had.

Now there was time, too, but not time for any of that. Amelie had to be kept safe. John and Sherlock would find Moran. They had to. It would be just like the days before the fall. Only this time, it was different.

Amelie sat on the couch looking small while John and Sherlock debated.

"John, we have to send her to your sister's."

"Harry? No, Sherlock. She can stay here until we know it's not safe."

"And what if it's too late? It's Moriarty. It's not safe now."

"It's not Moriarty, it's Moran."

"Which makes it more dangerous. We don't know him."

"Sherlock."

John was adamant, trying to keep Amelie nearby. He didn't want to lose her – but how could he send her away?

"John, we need to send her somewhere else, we can't just have her milling around! I need you to help me on this. Send her to you sister's. This isn't a game we can play. Moran could make his move any moment, and we can't have someone else to look out for." _I'll look out for you, John. And when this is over we'll all be okay,_Sherlock thought. "John. Please."

Amelie climbed off the couch. She found her way into John's lap, fitting in perfectly. "Don't sent me away," she murmured. "Keep me with you."

John, hearing the tiny girl, looked up at his flatmate with pleading eyes. Sherlock caved. He'd caused John too much pain already. "She can stay for a few days. But at the first sign of danger, we send her to Harry's." There was nothing John could do but agree. Amelie buried her head in his chest, snuggling into his jumper. Sherlock watched the easy way John soothed her, rubbing her back and speaking softly. It wasn't something Sherlock could remember from his own childhood. It made him feel – no, never mind that. "I'm going to go fix my room," Sherlock said, absentmindedly.

…

Late at night, when she should have been sleeping, Amelie was still awake. John had reclaimed his bed, and for the moment, Amelie was camped on the couch. John left a light on for her when he went to bed. Amelie stared into the dim darkness, watching the clock tick over to midnight. One less day with John.

Amelie thought about Sherlock. She didn't really know what to make of him. John looked up to him, she knew. So he had to be a good person. Reading John's blog made him sound like the greatest person on earth. Amelie trusted John, so she would trust Sherlock.

As long as he didn't send her away.


	13. Binary

**I won't claim to be a mystery writer, so if this gets a bit sketchy at points, bear with me, please?**

**Also, even though I've forgotten this up till now, I don't own**_**Sherlock**_**. If I did, I'd be off following Benedict around.**

Sherlock sat in the armchair, in the fetal position, fingertips pressed together under his chin. Amelie watched him with interest. John was busy making tea and cereal. Sherlock didn't acknowledge the stares of young Amelie. Instead, he let himself wander through his mind palace. Amelie made a face at him, stuck her tongue out. Nothing. "John, what's he doing?"

"He's in his mind palace," John replied, not even bothering to look up. "He does that a lot."

"Your friend's weird, John," Amelie observed.

John laughed. It felt good to laugh. "He is. But he's a genius and a good friend, too." John settled Amelie at the table and brought a bowl of cereal over to Sherlock. He snapped his fingers in front of the detective's nose. "Eat something, Sherlock."

Grudgingly, Sherlock took his bowl of food and ladled some into his mouth. The movement was so incredibly Sherlock, John couldn't help but smile. Living a year without Sherlock was the most painful thing he'd ever had to do. Sometimes – every five minutes, at least – it felt like Sherlock would vanish again. John was developing the habit of watching Sherlock like a hawk.

"Sebastian Moran. Dishonourable discharge," Sherlock jumbled, food still in his mouth. "Friend of Moriarty's, apparently. He did say he was going to get a live-in one…"

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Moran's a sniper. Which only makes it more dangerous for us. Finally something interesting! You have no idea, John, what it was like not being able to solve crimes…!"

John did not grace that comment with an answer. The newspaper lie on the coffee table. John reached for it, rifling through the pages as if they held the secret to Moran.

Halfway down the last page, John saw it. A small advert – just a very small one.

_If you have seen a man by the name of Richard "Rich" Brook…_

"Sherlock…."

The consulting detective snatched the paper away. Amelie looked up to see him scowling at it. Angrily, yet still somewhat gleefully, Sherlock threw the paper down and stormed to his room. John followed him. Amelie crept off her chair, pulling the paper towards her.

_**If you have seen a man by the name of Richard "Rich" Brook, please call**_

_**0101001101001101**_

Amelie could tell right off it was a fake phone number; there too many digits. But Sherlock had understood the message. Amelie's stomach tied itself in knots. She didn't want to leave, but she knew they wouldn't let her stay. People only sent secret messages in spy movies, and there was always collateral damage in spy movies. Carefully, Amelie picked up the paper. She handled it like it was explosive, about to blow. She didn't know why. John and Sherlock were in Sherlock's room, rummaging through the piles of things he hadn't yet set to rights. "What does it mean?"

Sherlock looked up, then back down. As he pushed piles of papers aside, he explained, "It's Binary Code. It's used for computers and things."

"So? Why would the army guy give you computer code? Who's Richard Brook?"

Sherlock's mouth stayed shut. He gave John one of his looks. "It's a long story," John sighed. "Sherlock's a detective, as you know. He managed to make an enemy, Moriarty. And Moriarty created the persona of Richard Brook to make it look like Sherlock faked his genius. Only he gave himself away. "Rich Brook" in German is _Reichenbach_, the case that made Sherlock famous. Moriarty had assassins that were going to kill me and Sherlock's other friends if he didn't jump off the roof of St. Bart's – so we all had to think he was dead until it was safe for him to come back. Moriarty killed himself to ensure the killers couldn't be called off. And now his henchman, Moran, is avenging him."

Sherlock straightened. "Excellent memory, John. I thought you weren't listening the other night."

"Sherlock, it would've been impossible for me not to."

Amelie raised her hand like a child in school. "One question. Why the Binary Code?"

John's eyes went big. "Sorry. Got side-tracked. Moriarty broke into Pentonville Prison, Bank of England, and stole the crown jewels using a universal key. The key used Binary Code. Moriarty used Binary Code to tell Sherlock _there is no key_, too, but that's another story."

Amelie just nodded. "Okay."

Sherlock had taken a breath to respond to that when Lestrade walked in. "You probably want to see this," he called. Sherlock stepped out of his bedroom still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. Seeing him, Lestrade rolled his eyes and said, "Okay, just come like that. I don't think the cadavers will mind."

….

Sherlock stood over the body of Amelie's guardian. Molly stood a little off, whispering with John. "Why is he dressed like that?" she asked. Sherlock did make quite a sight, bending over the corpse with his magnifying glass in pyjamas. In response to Molly's question, John just shook his head and laughed. Molly watched the detective work for a minute before continuing. "How's he doing?"

"Him? He's doing fine. Wouldn't even think he missed me."

"He did, John."

"I know. But he's Sherlock. We're never going to know what goes on in his brain."

"AHA!" Sherlock practically yelled. "Who was on forensics, Lestrade?"

Annoyed, Lestrade replied, "Anderson."

"Well, he failed miserably." With that, Sherlock was walking out the morgue, upstairs to find Anderson. Lestrade trailed after, with John behind.

"What is it, Sherlock? What did we miss?" Sherlock's only response was laughter.

Anderson had been appointed to wait with Amelie. He sat awkwardly next to her while she read her book, ignoring him completely. "Anderson you colossal idiot!" Sherlock shouted, almost giddy.

"So it's true. Pity you lived."

"Anderson, would you like to explain how a knife makes a bullet hole? We'd all love to know."

"What?"

"The woman. Before she was stabbed, she was shot. By – drumroll please – a sniper." Here Sherlock paused and turned to Lestrade. "God I have missed this – the thrill of the chase. We all know which sniper I'm talking about, correct?"

"I don't," Anderson piped up.

"You don't need to."

"Oh how we missed you, Holmes."

Lestrade chimed in, "Anderson, shut up. Sherlock, are you saying _Moran_ killed Amelie's guardian?"

"Yes."


	14. Finish the Job

**Hiya! I have lots of little notes and things on what the rest of the story will be, but as we're really getting into the plot now, if you have anything you really want to see, just send me a review and I'll try my bestest to fit it in. And thank you to the wonderful people who have already reviewed!**

Amelie watched the adults jabber excitedly about Moran. It was obvious something was very, very wrong, but Amelie hadn't quite pieced it yet. The pieces she did know scared her. She knew Moran was dangerous, and he wouldn't stop hurting people because someone asked nicely. And she'd just learned he was the one to kill her guardian. Which only made Amelie think he would want to go after her. Still, as much as Amelie's fear gripped her, she was determined to be brave. She wanted to help, in her own little way. While she listened to everyone debating over where Moran might have taken the shot from, Amelie came up with an idea.

In a quiet, timid voice, Amelie offered, "If it was a sniper who killed her, why was there another man running away down the street?" It was a valid point, one that made everyone pause. John smiled, knowing Amelie. Lestrade gave a pause and looked to Sherlock.

"Could it have been one of the hitmen Moriarty hired?"

"I doubt it," Sherlock answered, "but it's possible."

They went back to debating, now taking into account the man in black. Amelie sat back, satisfied to have helped. She watched the people rushing around the hospital. Through the throng of people, Amelie caught a glimpse of someone she recognized. Sergeant Sally Donovan hurried towards them. "We just got a call that a man found a bullet casing on his roof – and you'll never guess who his neighbour is."

….

Amelie had insisted she come with John and Sherlock. She promised to stay in the car, just in case, but she made them take her. As the car pulled up to her old home, Amelie was hit with a pang of homesickness. She didn't really miss her guardian, the woman she'd called "mother" for lack of a better name. She didn't miss the house that much, she liked John's flat. But the house was a reminder of a different life. It reminded her she was an orphan now. It reminded her of the night of the murder – and how scared she'd been. She was scared now, too, but she knew John would protect her.

Sherlock climbed the ladder up to the man's roof. He looked for marks on the shingles telling him where the rifle had been set up. A burn mark told him where Seb Moran had put down his cigarette; scuff marks gave away the position of an old-fashioned wind gage. Sherlock mimed the position of the killer, squinting as though he were looking through the sights. "He was right here," Sherlock narrated. He showed John and Lestrade the positioning of his equipment. "It all makes perfect sense. Except for one bit." Sherlock picked up the single casing. "Why wouldn't he police his brass?"

John glanced nervously back to Amelie, sitting contentedly in the car. "It's a message," John flinched. "He wants us to know it's him, and he's going to finish the job Moriarty started."

….

Amelie's bag, small though it was, contained everything she owned. Everything else was at her old house. John placed the last shirt in the bag, zipping it up. Amelie choked on her words, "You said you wouldn't make me leave!"

John looked up to the wall, as if it might hold the answer to everything in its wallpaper pattern. "Amelie…"

A tear slid down the girl's face, followed by another and another. She didn't want to leave John. She'd gotten used to his habits, the rythms of life in 221B. "Please don't make me go."

John reached out and gathered the girl in his arms. As he spoke, his words clustered together. "I'm sorry, Amelie, but I'm not going to let anything happen to you. My sister will take good care of you." He heard a car beep its horn outside, down on the busy street. "She's here."

**Sorry this one's so short! My sister is taking the computer hostage**


	15. Not Us He's After

**Typing at one am after a week of testing…long and arduous apologies if I've missed something.**

**(I don't own any piece of BBC Sherlock. Not yet, anyway.)**

Amelie allowed herself to be ushered out to Harry's car. She clung to John, still begging to stay. Harry's smile was almost too large. She herself was largish, in the kind of way that her hugs might smother you. Amelie could see John's features on her face. She felt a little better to think of staying with John's sister.

John had a hard time prying the young girl from him. She buried her face in the soft wool of his jumper while Harry waited. John took Amelie's shoulders and held her at an arm's length. "I promise everything will be okay. You'll be back with me before you know it." Sniffling a bit, Amelie nodded. As John pulled her into a hug, she could see the curtains above shiver as Sherlock Holmes gazed out on the goodbyes. He offered the girl a tiny smile before disappearing again. Amelie breathed in John's scent as he stood and walked back to the door. For as long as she could see him, Amelie watched his hand swaying back and forth.

_Goodbye. Goodbye._

…..

Sherlock's violin filled 221B, as if trying to fill the space Amelie had left. If Sherlock had not been there, John would certainly have faded. The roles had been reversed – John was now relying on Sherlock. The detective wouldn't admit to caring for the girl, but he cared for John. Every neuron in Sherlock's brain was devoted to finding Moran.

"He left us clues. He wants to be found. The binary code in the newspaper – SM. What do you think, John?"

"I think that I want Moran dead."

John's answer surprised Sherlock. Recovering from his shock quickly, he continued his deduction. "There's the problem of the man on the street. It could be a neighbour, it could be Moran, or it could be a minion of Moran's. Not likely for a neighbour to be dressed in black, running through the night. Moran is smart, too smart for minions, Moriarty wouldn't tolerate stupidity. No, Moran would know how to play the game to manipulate. He was trained to be that 'sloppy' and show himself, not to mention the black clothes that made him stick out. He wanted to be noticed, but why? WH-... OH! John, can you see it? He is playing with us he is trying to get us to follow him blindly right into his hand!"

John raised his head, "What trap? We've known he's up to something from the moment Lestrade showed us that comment on my blog. _What trap, Sherlock?_" John's voice was louder, his fingers grasping the arm of his chair.

"Amelie!"

Sherlock jumped from his chair, grabbing his coat.

"It's not us he's after. Not directly."

…

Amelie's room was gigantic. Harry lived outside London, in a large house. She proudly escorted Amelie through the maze of rooms. When she at last reached her room, she could only stare in awe. The bed was huge and soft, like that of a princess. It looked warm and inviting, sitting next to the window. The countryside's hills were bathed in late-afternoon sunlight beyond the paned glass.

Her few belongings cluttered the dresser-top. Harry watched her pile them there. "We'll take you shopping for clothes tomorrow, love." She put her hand on Amelie's back, propelling her downstairs. Warm, kitcheny smells wafted up the stairs.

Kate, Harry's girlfriend, smiled welcomingly. She spooned a helping of soup onto Amelie's plate. "Perk up, sweetie, John's a man of his word. You won't have to stay here long."

"What's so bad about staying here?" Harry chided.

Kate stirred the soup in front of her. Her smirk gave her ploy away. Amelie smiled a little. "You two bicker like an old married couple," she laughed, remembering the ride to Harry's. Kate put her arm around Amelie's shoulders.

Holding out her hand, adorned with a bright stone, she announced, "In a few years we'll meet both those criteria." Amelie smiled and congratulated the pair. "Is John going to your wedding?"

"He's my best man!" Harry laughed. Her laugh was big and booming. Sitting with John's kind sister and her girlfriend, laughing, Amelie felt safe. She tried to forget the danger lurking back in London, the homesickness she felt for John, and the worry. She asked Harry and Kate to tell their love story. To Amelie, it was a fairy tale.

…..

Sherlock worked late into the night with Lestrade, searching for Moran. Lestrade drank coffee after coffee. Even Sherlock's massive intellect wasn't making much progress. As early morning light began to crowd the city's shadows out, Sherlock was no closer to finding the mysterious Moran. Lestrade was dozing, propped up on his elbow. The computer was still pinging and blipping as it conducted its own research. Sherlock grabbed his mobile.

"If any of you have seen a man by the name of Moran, you will call me." Sherlock gave the Network Moran's description and background. He hadn't gotten anywhere himself, but the Homeless Network was a bit better at getting around rules. Realizing there wasn't much of anything he could do at New Scotland Yard, Sherlock hailed a cab home.

As the cab pulled up Baker Street, Sherlock could see a distraught John pacing outside 221B. His hands wouldn't rest, his eyes held a wild fright and worry Sherlock had hardly ever seen before. The events of the morning were etched on John's face. Sherlock already knew, but he had to ask. "What's happened?"

"It's Amelie! He's – he's got Amelie. Oh, god, he's kidnapped her! Oh, god, Sherlock, he's gotten to her…And Harry, she's in the hospital…Sherlock – how – how do I fix it?" Tears were streaking their silent paths down John's face by then. Sherlock did not stop to berate him on his caring-ness. He pushed into the flat.

"How did you find out?"

"Blog. He's posted a comment. Sherlock, what could he want with her?" John was damn near hysterics. When he'd been in danger, it hadn't been nearly so hard…

"I don't know. John. John, stop it. Keep your head, we've got to find her."

Two seconds later, the detective and the doctor were en route to NSY again, leaving SM's ominous message flashing into their living room:

_WANTED: Knight In Shining Armor_

_REWARD: The Small Princess Amelie_

**Finally, a longer chapter! If I don't fall asleep on the keyboard, I may get the next chapter up tonight.**


	16. Bait

**This chapter's sort of a flashback. Amelie's kidnapping and such, and her first meeting with Moran.**

Amelie was bundled into the car early the next day. Harry was determined to take her shopping for clothes, having seen the girl's piteously small wardrobe. Kate was working, leaving Amelie alone with John's sister. As she drove, Harry sung along to the radio (though she didn't know many of the words). Most people might have been annoyed; Amelie drank it up. She had never had someone like Harry around.

The drive was a peaceful one through the countryside. No cars passed on either side, which Amelie counted as good luck. Harry was not the greatest of drivers.

To her credit, when the speeding car did appear, she tried her best to avoid it. There was nothing she could do, it seemed as if the car was _aiming_ for hers. It was large, larger than Harry's, but not large enough to crush it. Amelie saw the car flying down the road. She bit her lip. They were going to collide.

The screech of metal,

the crash of broken glass,

Harry's anguished scream,

the terrified protests of a young girl being dragged from the wrecked car. Blood washed upon the windshield, spattering it. Amelie kicked and shouted and tried to break free. She had to reach Harry! The strong arms around her pulled her away. They didn't flinch even when she sunk her teeth in, the calloused skin rough between her teeth. The rope was tight and dug into her wrists. The blindfold was so black she couldn't see a single ray of light.

Amelie knew who it was. Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. Surely Moran could hear it, he must have been smiling smugly. He'd gotten what he wanted. What would he do with her now? It wasn't a thought to dwell on. Amelie's seven-year-old mind buzzed with the morbid possibilities. No, he couldn't be that cruel, definitely he would let her live…?

Moran's car smelled of sweat and coffee. It wasn't a pleasant mixture. He had tried to hide it with air fresheners, but the smell was fresh as it assaulted Amelie's nose. She listened carefully to every sound, tried to feel every curve in the road. She could not paint a picture of where she was going. Moran didn't speak, he simply grunted every time the car jolted over a pothole. At last, the car slowed, crunching over pavement, and squealed to a stop.

"Out," Moran ordered, pulling the girl roughly by her roped wrists. Amelie obeyed, on auto-pilot. She would do whatever he told her. She wouldn't give the man a single reason to kill her. She, Amelie, was going to get out of this alive.

…..

Harry's head pounded excruciatingly. Dazed, she straightened and watched the world pulse and turn. Was that her blood on the windshield? Harry shook her head to clear it – and received a stab on pain. On her elbows and knees, she crawled out from the wreckage. The other car had been massive enough to inflict severe damage to Harry's little car. For a minute or two, it was all Harry could do to sit and let the world spin. When at last her head began to behave normally, she realised.

Amelie was gone.

Sitting in the middle of a dirt country road, with a bleeding head, a wrecked car, and without John's girl, Harry Watson let herself cry. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried. Only since she met Kate had she let that wall come down, and now the dam had been opened. Harry cried even as her pounding head protested. She cried to herself until she fell, unconscious, in the dirt, blood staining her blonde hair.

….

"Would you like to hear a story?"

The voice was almost soft, almost friendly. Amelie hung her head. She didn't trust that voice. Gently, the voice's owner removed her blindfold.

"Formalities," he explained, handing her a bottle of water. "Would you like to hear a story?"

Amelie did not. She didn't protest.

"When I was a young boy, I played soldier in my backyard. I played with my brothers, and watched as they went off to war. They never returned. When it was my turn to go, I went happily. I wanted to be a soldier. It was my life's dream. I like the work, I did it well. I found a place I fit in. And then they threw me out. Like yesterday's trash. I was no longer important, just another ex-army on London's streets. I was struggling for work. I didn't possess much skill beyond soldiering. Moriarty found me flat-drunk in my flat, bemoaning my troubles. He gave me a job, a purpose. Who knows? Maybe he would have given me someone to care for. I'll never know – he's dead, now. It had to be that way, he said, to beat Sherlock Holmes. To play the game."

"I'm sorry," Amelie whispered. She felt sorry for the man, even if she didn't want to. A gleam came into Moran's eyes. He no longer looked sane.

"Now that Mr Holmes is alive and well, it appears Moriarty died in vain. And I won't accept that. So I want revenge." Moran's voice had changed. It was softer now, but more menacing. Amelie shivered. "You see, young Amelie, we live in a fairy-tale world. Boss once said 'Every fairy-tale needs a good old-fashioned villain'. I'm picking up where he left off, see, I have to be the villain now. I'm afraid Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson will have to be your knights in shining armour, little princess." Moran leaned in close now. "If I were you, I'd be hoping for that fairy-tale ending right about now."

Amelie shut her eyes, squeezing the tears back. She was bait. Sherlock and John would be walking straight into the trap, and there was no way to warn them.

Amelie had always thought the bad guy was always supposed to lose in fairy-tales.

**I think I shall maybe go to sleep now?**

**~O~Reviews are better than sugar**


	17. Gunshots

**You're going to hate me by the end of this chapter. Just a friendly warning….**

Kate knelt next to Harry's hospital bed. The doctors had been speedy, patching her up. Harry had yet to regain consciousness. The hospital staff had been amazed she made it out of the car before fainting. When the other car smashed into hers, Harry's neck had been thrown about quite a bit, and nearly broken in one or two places. The doctors refused to tell Kate much of anything; she knew only that the damage was bad. Along with the neck injuries, Harry had a huge gash on the side of her forehead, which was persistently bleeding through the gauze patches Dr Smith had taped on.

Harry reached out, tenderly stroking Harry's hand. She pushed the blonde bangs away from the red blur on the gauze. "Oh, Harry…" Softly, Kate pressed Harry's fingers to her mouth. She looked down at her own hand, where her engagement ring sparkled. "Harry, you hear me: we _will_ go dress shopping next weekend. You'll be good as new then. I don't care if you have to marry me with a neck brace on or mummy bandages on your head. You will wake up, and you will be fine, and you will marry the woman of your dreams."

…

Sherlock burst into the hospital. John was just ahead of him, scurrying from one doctor to the next, begging them for information on Harry. The busy doctors brushed John off, tapping on clipboards and yelling to nurses. Sherlock gingerly pulled at John's coat sleeve, pointing to the woman hurrying down the hall.

"Kate!" John called after her, the woman turning just before getting in the lift. "Kate, do you know what's happened to Harry?"

"She was in a car crash. I swear she wasn't drunk, John, she's been off the booze for almost a year now, she's doing so well…"

"I know she wasn't drunk. It was Moran." Kate's eyes dropped. She'd heard about Moran.

"Are you sure?" A sad, true nod. "She's upstairs. There's a nasty gash on her forehead, and her neck's – her neck was nearly snapped in two, John. It's not broken, they think, but – oh, god, John, she hasn't woken up yet!"

John put his arms around his sister's fiancé. "Shhh, Kate, Harry's a fighter. She'll be fine, I know it. You'll get married and be happy, and all this will be just a distant memory soon."

….

Amelie squirmed in her chair. She didn't like the ropes chafing at her skin. She hated the man sitting across from her, sharpening his knife. The blade made a dull scraping noise as he moved it. The building holding her was an old warehouse, like in the movies, and it made Amelie nervous. How she longed to be safe at 221B, watching Doctor Who or playing Cluedo with John!

Moran had nothing more to say to her. Now, his only purpose was to wait. His web was spun, and soon the flies would be trapped.

…..

John didn't stay with his sister long. He visited her room long enough to whisper something in her ear, kiss her forehead, and hold her hand, only for a brief moment. Sherlock stood outside. He had never been very good with emotional…things. He didn't want to do something "a bit not good" now; that was the last thing John needed.

Sherlock was trying to work out Amelie's location in his mind. He paid an impromptu visit to his mind palace, for once not ordering John out of the room.

"John, she's in an abandoned warehouse!"

"Sherlock, wha- how do you know that?"

"Moriarty only met where I asked him to, leaving me no lead on the type of place he'd prefer and would train Moran for. Unlikely Moran's still in the countryside; there's no place to hide a hostage there. So the city, then. He can't afford to be suspicious, but he can't be hidden, either. So a less-inhabited part of the city. Moran is, on some level, a sociopath. He'll toy with us. Mycroft and Irene – we've met them in warehouses. It all fits."

"Which warehouse?"

Lestrade cut in, having just appeared from down the hall. "A map might help," he said, unfolding a humongous map and holding it up. Sherlock's all-observing eyes scanned the map. They darted from block to block, skipping over some, looking closely at others.

"There," he practically shouted, half-giddy as he ran down the hall. "We know where she is, John!"

….

Amelie's heart was pounding out a marching beat in her chest. In her seven-year life, she had never felt like this. She hoped she never would again. Terrified, and worried, and sad, and hurt. So much had happened that was unfathomable to other kids her age. Amelie didn't know a single other person who had been kidnapped.

If she had been able to undo her ropes, it would have done her no good. Moran was a good watchdog. She sat obediently, quietly, chewing her lip and not knowing what to wish. If Sherlock never showed, what would happen to her? And if he did, what revenge did Moran have planned? It made Amelie's head spin.

Moran was busy examining his gun in his seat about twenty meters off. Amelie was the only one who saw it. A shadow, gone too quickly for Amelie to see what it was. She would not allow herself to think of who it might be.

The shadow had darted away too quickly. The night warehouse was creepy enough without undefined shadows lurking. Amelie focused on the roped tied at her wrists and the sounds of Moran. The silence in the warehouse was broken only by his staccato breaths and the click of his gun as he turned it in his hands.

Out of the dark silence, Amelie could feel a sudden presence behind her. "Don't…move…a…muscle. Don't…breathe…" Sherlock Holmes' deft fingers twisted the rope out of its knots quickly. The rope slid off the reddened skin of Amelie's wrists and landed softly on the warehouse floor. Amelie sat rigid, afraid to move lest she draw attention to herself – and Sherlock. The detective leaned into her ear. "Don't move. Not yet. When I say run, run, and don't stop until you're with Lestrade." Amelie nodded, silent. She bit he lip in nervousness. With the soft rustling of fabric, Amelie could tell Sherlock was gone.

Several minutes passed in agony. Once or twice, Amelie thought she saw the shadows of her rescuers in the dim warehouse. Moran never looked up from his gun, obviously believing they had yet to show. Amelie watched him, nervous and showing it.

"Worried, dear? I should think they aren't going to show up," Moran hissed.

"Quite contrary," the low, menacing voice of Holmes contradicted.

"I suggest you drop the gun," John followed. Sherlock was just above them, on a sort of fire-escape ladder. John stood in front of Moran, a gun trained on the man's skull. "You okay?" John yelled, not turning his head. Amelie managed a squeaky "yes."

Moran sneered. He pulled his gun out and placed it in the middle of John's forehead. John backed up, keeping his gun trained on Moran's head. Sherlock stood on the balcony above. He watched the dance of the gunmen. "Run!"

Amelie bolted. She didn't look back, not once. The echo of a gunshot rang through the night. It was followed by a second. Amelie collapsed to her knees, halfway to Lestrade. Two gunshots…

Clamoring could be heard inside now. Through her tears, the blood rushing through her ears, Amelie heard it. "JOHN! JOHN HOLD ON, JOHN, HELP IS ON THE WAY. JOHN!"

Amelie had run. John turned for only half a second – _it had only been half a second!_ – enough time for Moran to shoot. Sherlock's bullet hit its mark perfectly.

Amelie forced herself to stand. With blurry vision she stumbled back into the warehouse. She did not notice the sticky redness of her sneakers as she walked over the dead body of Moran. She had eyes only for the man lying crumpled on the floor, a red rose blooming on his jumper. Sherlock's hands were stained red, pressing on John's stomach, trying to staunch the bleeding. Already a large pool of crimson had formed under the doctor's battered frame.

"John, stay with me, JOHN!"

He wasn't listening. John mumbled nonsensical jumbo. The war – he'd been a soldier. He was at war, he's been shot before…In the shoulder.

Amelie fell to her knees at by his head. Her jeans turned a sickly dark red as she leaned over John. As the sun rose, Amelie talked rubbish, stroking his hair, keeping him with her. Ambulance sirens threw their shrieks out amongst the buildings but they sounded so far off…The tears of the young girl were mixing with the blood of the old doctor…

"John, stay, John, you can't go, John, I love you, John…"

The doctor's eyes drifted shut even as the girl cried into his jumper and the man pressed on his wound. The first rays of morning light touched his closed lids tenderly.

"John don't leave me, John, I love you…"


	18. Hospital

Beep…beep…beep…beep…

He could feel something in his arm. He could feel bright white around him, making it painful to open his eyes more than a millimetre or two. His side throbbed painfully. He picked his hand up, and still mostly blind, ran a finger over the spot that hurt. Wincing, he withdrew his hand. A neat row of stitches paraded across his abdomen. Slowly, he opened his eyes. The white light stung at first, everything was a blur.

"John!" It was the low voice of his best friend, Sherlock Holmes.

"Shhlk," John slurred. The medicine made him drowsy. He could see it being fed into his arm by that tube there. "Wt hpd?"

Sherlock smiled slightly. He was enormously happy to see John's eyes opening, registering…to hear his voice. "You got shot," he choked. He still couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe he'd let it happen. John had almost died in his arms…."Are you feeling alright?"

"Mmmmf." John tilted his head side to side, letting it loll on the pillow. He felt like he was floating. Maybe he was high. What were they giving him? "Amlee."

"She's back at 221B. Mrs Hudson's looking after her. She's a bit shaken, of course. She wants to see you."

"Mmmf." John saw the sparkles in Sherlock's eyes. He must have looked awfully funny, drugged out of his mind, lying in a hospital gown. "Heal?"

"A few weeks, John. You'll be good as new." Sherlock wanted to keep John talking. He wanted to hear that voice, the best voice in the world, he never wanted that voice to stop talking. Had he really come so close to losing it? God, he couldn't imagine life without John. Before, he'd been happy with alone, now…God, it seemed like hell not to have John by his side.

Sherlock's reverie was broken by the slurring Watson. "Yooo sav'd mmm," he mumbled. John, drugged to oblivion and barely in his right mind, reached out for Sherlock. He pulled the detective close.

The kiss was fleeting, but it was far from a light, sweet kiss. John, not having wonderful vision, sort of banged into Sherlock's lips. For a moment, Sherlock almost pulled back in surprise. The next moment, he was gently leaning in to kiss John back. Satisfied, John sank back into the pillows. Sherlock pulled the covers up around him and walked out, stopping at the nurse's station to say he would be back.

…

Amelie lie curled in on herself. Mrs Hudson was busy making her a sandwich for lunch. Amelie wasn't hungry. She listened to the tinkering noises of Mrs Hudson's knife on the plate, the clinks penetrating the numb. Over and over, the gunshots rang in her head, the red blood seeped onto Sherlock's hands, John's eyes closed as Amelie held him. A seven-year-old brain is imaginative – and Amelie's was running wild.

When the ambulance had arrived, Amelie had practically been pried from John. She begged and pleaded to go with him until Sherlock pulled her away. Amelie had buried her face in his long coat, soaking his purple shirt with tears as she sobbed. Sherlock had awkwardly put his arms around her, returning her small hug. Amelie remembered his soft touch, rubbing her back to calm her even as they stained her shirt red. Amelie had known comfort was a foreign notion to Sherlock. But she welcomed his comfort anyway.

Sherlock had left for the hospital early in the morning. He'd stayed at 221B for only as long as he had to before John would be allowed to see visitors. The hospital had stopped answering Sherlock's calls around 3 AM, two hours after John had been shot. Amelie's last news had been broken and jumbled: John was in surgery, John would live, John was in critical condition.

John had woken up. Amelie longed to hear those words. She wanted to hear them so badly it hurt. Mrs Hudson, in the quiet way she moved, left Amelie's sandwich on the coffee table. The girl stirred to watch her pad back out of the room. Both of them knew the food would not be touched.

Amelie curled into a tighter ball. She snuggled her head into one of John's jumpers, which had been strewn across the couch. It smelled just like him, an odd mixture of jam, wool, and a light tinge of medical supplies. Amelie let her tear-heavy eyes shut, the smell of John lulling her to sleep.


	19. Come Home

**Only a few chapters left now! If there's anything you really want to see here, there's still time to tell me! And if not, sit tight and enjoy the ride.**

Amelie was quiet, reserved, as Sherlock led her through the hospital. People pushed and prodded their ways through the hall, stretchers were wheeled from one room to another. Sobs, shrill and piercing, nearly broke Amelie's heart. It was a horrible place for John to be. Sherlock's hand pressed into her back, helping her forwards. At last, Sherlock steered her into a lift, leaving the hubbub behind.

John's floor was quieter. Visitors rarely made the trip here, and the patients were quiet. Too quiet. Amelie's spine crawled. The floor was eerily silent, like Death would walk out of any door. But they'd said John was in the clear….

The door appeared on her left. "Watson, John," the name-card read. Amelie gulped, terrified she would find John nearly dead inside. Slowly, her hand reached for the handle. The door swung open easily. Sherlock hung back. Over the past two days, he had visited John many times. He practically lived at the hospital. Amelie tentatively stepped towards the bed. John was asleep, his head tilted towards the sunlight streaming from the window. He looked weak, sick, not at all like the brave, strong man Amelie had come to know. With a rustle of fabric, she leaned on the side of the bed.

"John, I'm here…" Her fingers scratched the sheets as she took John's hand, rubbing it gingerly with her thumb. John's eyelids fluttered a little. Blinking blearily, they slid open. At first, the eyes darted around uncertainly, disoriented. Then they took in Amelie's face.

John pushed himself up and threw his arms around the girl. "Amelie!" The army doctor's face was lit up like Christmas. Releasing her from his hug, John's smile was gigantic. He ignored the pain in his side, focusing on the little girl next to him. He'd been so close to losing her forever…

"Hi John. Sherlock brought me by. He said you were okay. Are you okay?"

John laughed. "I'm fine, much better now. They've got me very medicated, but it doesn't hurt too much anymore. I'll be home within the week!"

Amelie smiled. He was going to be fine! She sat with John a moment, listening to him tell her about the nurses and doctors. "There's one," he whispered, "with bright pink hair and blue highlights. Before they dropped the dosage on my meds, I laughed every time I saw her." Amelie laughed. It felt good to laugh. The hospital was dismal, but at least one room echoed with laughter.

…

Sherlock appeared after an hour or so. Whether or not he admitted it, Sherlock loved the sight of John and Amelie smiling and giggling. He walked to John's bed and quickly left a kiss on his forehead. "Shall we get lunch?"

John had to be loaded into a wheelchair to leave the room. Seeing Amelie's scrunched brow, her worried gaze, John insisted it was just protocol; his stitches couldn't be torn. Sherlock pushed John's chair through the halls, leading the way to the cafeteria. Amelie bumbled along next to the chair, a tiny bounce back in her step. John had wiped away her fears; her spirits were soaring.

Lunch was barely related to food at all, as it often is in hospitals, but Amelie barely tasted it. She was a bag of jitters. Excited for John to come home, worried he wasn't as okay as he said…And then there was the matter of the kiss, which made Amelie's heart swell. Why would it do that?

John dropped his napkin into his plate. "Makes me miss Mrs Hudson's cooking," he grumbled. Sherlock snuck a chip from his plate. He hadn't got any food of his own. Shooting him a joking look, John said, "I'd like to get out of that room for a bit. Anyone want to walk around the courtyard?"

…

Sherlock sat on a bench in the courtyard, John's wheelchair beside him. "You should have seen her at the flat, John. She barely moved, barely ate. She looked like death warmed over. And now that she knows you're going to live – look!"

John let his eyes follow Amelie, busy climbing a tree. Her foot slipped and she dangled from a branch, giggling madly. "I told her about being so loopy. I don't think I've ever seen anyone laugh so hard." John chuckled. "That even took you by surprise." Sherlock smirked.

"I can't wait for you to come home, John."

…

Amelie and Sherlock stood outside 221B. The detective was slipping the key into the lock when he felt small arms around his waist. "Thank you, Sherlock." Taken by surprise, Sherlock awkwardly lifted his arms, resting them around the small child. For a moment, they stood there in the lowering light. A tall, dark man and a tiny child, embracing.


	20. Sweet Dreams

**Fluffy chapter time! Partly fluff, anyway.**

***I don't own Sherlock. Whatever gave you that idea?**

221B looked just like he remembered it. Even the painted smiley-face had yet to add a bullet hole. The only thing to change was the couch, draped in blankets. Amelie lay inside, on her back as she looked out the window. Allowing Sherlock to take his coat, he sank to his knees and crawled inside the make shift fort. Amelie sprang upright. "John! You're home!"

John swooped the girl into his arms, holding her under the blanket roof. "I'm home. I"m not leaving again."

...

Mrs Hudson was invited to dinner. Amelie sat as close as possible to John, practically on his chair. Sherlock cast a worried glance at his flatmate every so often. Mrs Hudson chattered happily, even though she knew no one really cared about her words. John was home, that was all that mattered. They stayed at the table long into the night, just talking. Mrs Hudson offered to do the dishes – "Just once, love." John smiled and thanked her. He listened to Sherlock speak in the warm kitchen, belly full, with a half-asleep Amelie leaning at his side. It was a good feeling.

When Mrs Hudson had shuffled off to bed, John roused Amelie. Sleepily, she curled into his chest. "Not getting up," she slurred. John stroked her hair, "You have to go to bed, love."

Sherlock leaned over. "I'll carry her up, John." Amelie surrendered, allowing the tall man to lift her up. Rocking back and forth with his stride, she snuggled into his shoulder. Sherlock looked down at the small body in his arms. If only Mycroft could see him! The great Sherlock Holmes carrying a child to bed… Tenderly, Sherlock lay the girl on her bed and tucked her in. As he pulled the covers to her chin, Amelie reached out her arms and gave Sherlock a fleeting hug. "Goodnight, Amelie."

John waited in the kitchen. He sipped his tea, looking up when Sherlock walked in. Sighing, the detective lowered himself into a chair. The pair sat quietly for a moment before Sherlock spoke. "Her guardian's murder's been solved."

"Yes, I know," John replied absently.

John hung his head. "John…"

The hands scratched over his face, rubbed his eyes. "How long do you think we have?"

"Days." The answer was obvious. Days – just days! Could it really be that short a time? John pushed himself up. He walked with a slight limp, not stretching the side with the bullet wound. Sherlock watched him leave. He hadn't wanted to bring that up…

…..

Amelie slept in John's bed. Sherlock had insisted John take his. So it was that Sherlock stared at the ceiling, listening to the shadows, thinking. Every so often the beams of headlights would pass by the windows, leaving jagged strips of light that jittered and faded. The night was somewhat peaceful.

Until he heard it.

Low, not really very loud. But Sherlock heard everything. He leapt from the couch.

John's breathing was ragged and loud. He clutched at the pillow, strangling its threads in his strong hands. A soft scream hit Sherlock's ears as if it had punched him. Sherlock stood for a moment, paralyzed by the shock of seeing him like this. Strong John, reduced to this puddle of fear. It hurt to imagine what the nightmare that showed him. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, putting a hand to John's shoulder. It was sweaty and hot, shaking.

Sherlock didn't know how to comfort people – he'd always been awful at it. He didn't know how to make the nightmare fade. His mum had never heard him as a child, he's been alone. John wouldn't be alone.

Sherlock pulled the army veteran into his arms. He could feel John's quaking body, his racing heart. Trying to be comforting, Sherlock rubbed circles on the doctor's back. He rocked slightly. John's shaking came slowly to a stop, his eyes slid open. "Sh-sh-sher-lock-" His eyes shone with fear, like a caged animal. Sherlock didn't know what to say. He'd never seen John like this. He rubbed more circles.

Whispering, Sherlock offered up what he could. "I'm here, John. I'm here." Tears crept down John's cheeks. They fell onto Sherlock's arms, wrapped around John. He tried to speak, to say he was alright, but no words came. They lodged in his throat. It didn't matter. Sherlock knew it was a lie. He spoke to John, knowing the man didn't register a word. He rubbed his back and held him close. Sobs wracked the man's body…what the hell could reduce John to this? It frightened Sherlock.

Slowly, painfully slowly, John calmed. Sherlock hoisted the doctor into his arms and made his way to the kitchen. John felt silly, being carried, but he didn't protest. Sherlock set him down on the couch. Setting the kettle to boil, he settled next to John on the couch. He watched his toes, curling and uncurling them. He waited for John to speak. John waited for Sherlock to break the silence.

"What do you dream of?" Sherlock murmured.

John was quiet a moment. "The army. It didn't happen after I met you, disappeared with my limp. I – I guess being shot…I guess it brought it back." He breathed raggedly. "It's worse now. I see – I see all my mates getting killed, Sherlock, just dying in front of me…I saved a lot of people, but no matter what I did, so many died. So many lives I couldn't save. And then I got shot, and I got sent home. I wasn't any use to them anymore. I see the battlefield, the blood, feel the final heartbeats of a friend, hear their laboured breath in between gunshots. It haunts me, but the worst part is – I missed it."

Sherlock listened to John. He was fascinated. When John paused, he spoke up. "You missed it?"

"Not the fighting, the violence, the death, no. I missed helping, or at least thinking I was. What we were fighting for…I had to believe it was good, when the war was so bad. Every life I saved made it a little easier. I was fighting for people's lives, and the ones I couldn't save…maybe it felt like we were avenging them."

John stopped again. Sherlock went for the kettle and poured him a cup of tea.

"Your brother. He told me, 'When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield.' I liked it better with you. There was a better fight. I stopped missing the one I'd left. And now it's back. Every time I close my eyes. It won't leave me alone."

Sherlock pulled John into an awkward hug. He saw the fatigue lining John's eyes. "It's alright now, John. You need to sleep. Come on." Sherlock placed John's cup on the table. He took John's hand and led him to the bedroom. Nestling the covers around his flatmate, Sherlock kissed his forehead. "They're only dreams now, John. They can't hurt you." He leaned on the edge of the bed.

John looked up to Sherlock. "Aren't you going to lie down?"

Sherlock fidgeted. "I-i-um. Yes." He lifted the corner of the blankets and slid under. He wrapped his arms around John. John nuzzled into the crook between his neck and shoulder.

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Sweet dreams."


	21. Slipping Away

**I have ideas to make this story a few chapters longer, but I don't want to drag it out longer and longer. Please review if you have a suggestion and know this chapter may be edited.**

Amelie and John sat at the table over toast. John's tea sprayed steam into the early-morning air. Sherlock rubbed his eyes and finished pouring his cup of tea, pecking John on the top of the head as he sat. Neither of the men looked like they'd got enough sleep, although John showed it much more than Sherlock. Amelie's bleary sleep-fogged vision detected dark circles under his eyes, weighted down with tiredness. Still, the army doctor managed to keep up a cheery air, asking Amelie how she'd slept and other pleasantries.

Staring into his tea like it held the answer to life, the universe, and everything, John asked, "Any good dreams?" Sherlock rolled his eyes; he obviously didn't bank much on dreams. Amelie perked up, fidgeting a little in her chair.

"Yes!" she practically shouted. "I dreamed we had a birthday party here for you, John! Molly and Lestrade and Sherlock's brother and even Anderson, even though Sherlock doesn't like him, and Mrs Hudson baked a cake – it was brilliant!"

Sherlock cracked a smile at Amelie's comment on Anderson. John chuckled. "That would be a nice party," he said wistfully. Amelie rattled on for a moment more about the presents with spotted wrapping paper and the cake frosting smeared on Anderson's nose, but John was barely listening. It didn't seem like that long ago he'd brought Amelie there, but the girl in front of him was in no way the same one who trembled in his arms that night.

A bing from Sherlock's phone jolted John out of his reverie. Sherlock looked down at the screen, pocketing his mobile and calling over his shoulder, "Text from Lestrade. Be back for lunch."

….

Lestrade was dreading the news he had to deliver. The prim, proper woman next to him held a clipboard on her knee, stroking the hem of her posh skirt. Sipping his coffee, Lestrade did his best to ignore her. She tapped her pencil impatiently, not at all phased by the idea of meeting Sherlock Holmes, or as the tabloids preferred, "Living Legend Sherlock Holmes."

"So when will he be here?" she asked indifferently, like she could wait all day. Her tone held an icier edge, making Lestrade cringe. He'd known this was coming, but he had put it off far longer than he should have.

Before the detective inspector could reply, the great man himself darkened the doorway. "Oh, you're here," Lestrade stated lamely. "This is Ms Priscilla Wilkins, from Social Services."

Sherlock's heart dropped. He'd been expecting this, but not for a few days now. He knew it would break John's heart, but more than that, it would wound his. As much as he hated to admit closeness to any human besides John, Amelie had broken through. Sighing, Sherlock muttered, "You're here for Amelie."

Ms Wilkins nodded. "Yes, I believe the arrangement was she stay with your flatmate until her mother's killer was caught. And seeing as he's dead a few days by now, she's overstayed her welcome." Sherlock bit back a snide response. He wanted nothing more than to treat this lady like a female Anderson, but doing that wouldn't help Amelie's chances.

"She hasn't overstayed her welcome, Ms Wilkins. Quite contrary, we'd be delighted to have her stay. John – he's so much better now, Lestrade. Where would you take her?"

"An orphanage. Where else?" The terse response cut into Sherlock's logic. Ms Wilkins paused a moment, leaning forwards a tad, speaking slowly as if to an imbecile. "You have to see sense, Mr Holmes. Amelie's mother is dead. She isn't going to be wonderfully stable so soon after such a disaster – and I heard she was kidnapped while in your care? That she saw a man shot in front of her, and another killed? Not to mention the fact that you've supposedly returned from the dead, and your flatmate isn't in the best of conditions, I should think. Do you really think that you can provide this girl with the care and attention she needs?"

Lestrade watched Sherlock, who was working his jaw, eyes glancing back and forth in frantic thought. The eyes slowed, raised to Ms Wilkins' level. They showed defeat. "No. I don't."

…

"You can't make me go! You made me leave before, remember, and that didn't turn out great! LET ME STAY!" Amelie fought the hands carrying her to the car, Sherlock's strong hands lifting her up. John's sombre face could look only at his hands, dropping Amelie's things into the hands of the social worker. Sherlock put the tiny girl down on sidewalk, her little eyes blazing fury and hurt. Sherlock looked away. Why did he have to do this?

Kneeling on the pavement in his suit pants, Sherlock gathered Amelie into a quick hug. He whispered in her ear, "I will fix this."

John could hardly say goodbye. He held the girl in his arms, tears threatening to dive down his face. Amelie put her small hands on his back, leaning into him. She didn't want to let go. John held her an arm's length away. "You, Amelie, are amazing. Don't forget that and you'll do just fine." He stood shakily, crowding back into Sherlock's unwavering form. As the car pulled away, John turned into Sherlock, begging comfort.

…

Amelie watched John and Sherlock until they disappeared from view. She turned gloomily forwards, into the smiling face of Ms Wilkins babbling about the amazing children's home and how wonderful everything was going to be. She didn't hear a word of it. Watching London roll past out the window, all Amelie heard was John and Sherlock laughing at something she'd done, arguing over experiments, joking to make her smile. She could feel it all slipping away.

**Here are some feels. You're welcome. Are you glad I'm not Moffat? And yes, I am in a bit of a ribbing-on-Anderson mood…so. I might edit this chapter or I might be lazy. Only like 2 chapters left now, though, unless I change my length…**

**Send me a review at once if convenient. If inconvenient, send anyway. :)**


	22. Something Missing

Boring. Everything outside was boring. The same tree, the same street, the same rusty, forgotten bike. She'd been staring at them every day, looking at the world through the window. She didn't want to go outside and play with the other kids, she didn't want to stay inside and read or watch telly. The workers at the home were nice enough, some of them kindly, but they mostly left Amelie alone. They didn't know what to make of her, the girl who'd witnessed two murders, a shooting, and had lived with Sherlock Holmes. They cast worried glances at her when they passed, but they always kept walking. Amelie didn't want them to stop anyway.

She'd never felt loved before. Her "mother," the one now refereed to only as "guardian," hadn't been very welcoming or warm. She would just as soon hug Amelie as spank her. John had never spanked her, and his hugs had been nice. Sherlock's too, even though he smelled like science and tea. It had been a nice feeling, warm and fuzzy, to be with them.

But that was gone now. Sherlock and John would be just fine without her; they'd go back to how they were before Sherlock's fall. Amelie wouldn't last long in their memories. Soon they would forget her, and they would be okay. It was Amelie who wouldn't forget.

The workers called out for lunch, their shrill voices battering Amelie's ears. She grappled out of the chair by the window and tiptoed downstairs to the mess hall, mush awaiting.

…

Sherlock took small cases, keeping his name out of the media. John blogged silently, deleting the entries without posting them. They settled into a routine like the one they'd had before. It had been enough for the first two years they'd known each other. Why wasn't it enough now?

Amelie. That was why. John knew it – he missed the girl. _It doesn't matter, John, she'd be happier living with someone else. She'd just be in danger here. You have Sherlock now, isn't that what you've wanted?_ No matter how much he reasoned with himself, he couldn't let it go.

Sherlock, in an uncharacteristic attempt to lighten the mood, invited John out for dinner. "Just a meal at Angelo's, John. Your blog will still be here when we get back."

John shook the fog out of his head. Tilting upwards, he stole a quick kiss from Sherlock. "All right."

The taxi ride over was silent, a companionable silence, each man lost in thought. Angelo was ecstatic to see Sherlock again, plopping his candle down purposefully. John chuckled under his breath, remembering the first time he'd eaten here with Sherlock. It seemed silly now to protest being Sherlock's date.

John scanned his eyes over the menu, barely noticing the words. He was busy watching Sherlock. The other man felt John's eyes on him. "John, my face won't change if you look away from it," he stated, trying to coax a laugh out of his flatmate. John's stifled chuckle answered.

"I suppose you're right – it's just…You look so normal. It's not a word I'd use to describe you." He paused, watching the candle flicker in the centre of the table. "I don't think this is just a normal night out, either. It's lovely, a nice place here, but there're definitely places closer to Baker Street. Why here?"

Sherlock snapped his menu shut, looking up. "Can't a man take his boyfriend for a date?"

John shifted in his seat slightly. "Is that what we are now, boyfriends?"

"Well," Sherlock started, slightly flustered, "I mean – you see, I thought – I don't know John, but I can't deny feelings for you. I'm sorry – it's just – I'm not good at these things…"

John had to laugh at Sherlock's lisping stutter. "No, Sherlock, you're fine. Trust me, I'm glad…for this, for you, it's just funny to think – 'boyfriend' – it sounds like we're back in primary school." He wanted to tell Sherlock how long he'd wanted to have this conversation; he wanted to tell Sherlock everything.

Sherlock's face broke out into that wonderful smile. When he wasn't being sarcastic, when he wasn't in disguise, Sherlock's smile was sincere and bright. John loved that smile.

"Funny, ever since I met you, you've been insisting we weren't a couple."

"Yeah, guess so," John smiled. "Glad I was wrong."

Angelo brought their meals, winking conspiratorially at John as he set down the plates. "Not his date, my ass," he mumbled as he walked away. The pair continued talking through mouthfuls of food, saying the words that had been bottled up for so long. Sherlock's cheeks blushed slightly – he'd never been on a real date, just a few blind ones Mycroft had tortured him with. He'd known his brother meant only to vex him, and it had worked. John was different. He didn't wear cleavage tops or leap out a bathroom window.

When the food was gone, Sherlock left a few notes on the table and stood up with John. Outside, Sherlock raised his hand to hail a cab, but John grabbed it. Softly, he intertwined his fingers in Sherlock's. "Let's walk a bit, shall we?"

…..

Amelie stared at the ceiling, trying to drop off to sleep. She'd given up on making friends, opting instead to be alone. The dim light of the room wrapped around her. In that peculiar place between sleep and consciousness, Amelie's mind seized her. As always, they were thoughts of home. That smiling, aged face, turned to hers in a laugh, or smiling adoringly at the other. The pale, cold front the other put on, melting. A single tear ripped its path down her cheek. All she wanted was to go home.

…

Sherlock and John wove through London. The lamp-lit streets glistened with rain's moisture. Sherlock's deep laugh rumbled through the night. John could feel a smile rising to his lips. He had never seen Sherlock this happy. He couldn't help the smile, even if it faltered at the edges, even if his eyes didn't laugh with him.

…..

**Please accept my deepest apologies for this chapter. I'm being a bit rambly, I know, but the next chapter is the last one, so you don't have to put up with me much longer. If you've put up with me this long, you deserve some love.**

**Reviews mean a lot to me, so if you've got something to say, send me one.**


	23. Epilogue

**This is the last chapter. I don't want to just keep rambling (actually I might delete a few chapters and make this shorter). You, my readers, are incredible, and I thank you for taking the time to read this. **

John pushed back the covers, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes. Sherlock was already up, as usual, but his pillow still held warmth. John pushed himself off the bed, sleepily stumbling into the kitchen. Sherlock stood at the stove, pouring tea from the kettle into a cup. "Morning, John."

John mumbled a morning, taking the tea from Sherlock's hands. He settled into a chair at the table. A plate of pancakes sat in the centre. "You made pancakes?" John asked, disbelieving.

"Mrs Hudson."

The two men sat quietly, sipping tea and reading the paper. They heard a shuffle on the stairs, the soft clunk of the door hitting the wall. Moments later, she bounced into the kitchen, flinging her arms around each of them in turn. "Good morning!" she shouted, plunking into a chair. Sliding a pancake onto her plate, she took a huge bite, chocolate chip dripping down her chin.

"G'morning, Amelie," John laughed. Sherlock hid his smile in his teacup. Amelie was full of energy, fidgeting in her seat as she babbled on, not noticing John's groggy expression. John loved to listen to her like this, when she was so excited she barely took a breath, and her face lit up like Christmas. He was proud to call her his daughter.

…

_3 Months Ago_

"John. I found Amelie." Sherlock's voice was tentative, waiting for John's approval.

John didn't know how to react at first. He gibbered for a moment. "Sherlock…I don't…" He struggled to find the words. Finally they rolled off his tongue. "Can we see her?"

The ride to the home was torturous. Perhaps Amelie wouldn't be glad to see them. She'd be heartbroken when they left. What good did John think this trip would do? It would only refresh the pain of losing her. Sherlock's straight face was ragged at the edges. John could tell he was unsure. Gingerly, John took Sherlock's hand in his. He wasn't doing this alone.

Amelie was sitting, despondent, when they arrived. The large armchair she curled up in swallowed her, making her tiny frame seem smaller. Tentatively, John knelt next to the chair. "Amelie?"

The girl turned from the window at lightning speed, hugging John tightly. Her little body shook as John felt teardrops on his shirt. Shakily, she whispered, "You came." John held her, tears threatening to fall from his own eyes. Sherlock knelt, too, placing one hand on John's back, the other on Amelie's. John took Amelie's shoulders, holding her at an arm's length. He could see her sad smile; he knew she hated him for leaving, loved him for coming back.

"I will never leave you again, Amelie."

The adoption had been completed. John and Sherlock had become parents.

…..

"Amelie, you've got to get ready for school!" John cried, energy finally kicking in. Amelie shrieked and ran down the stairs, leaving John in his old bedroom. He sighed, turning to run down the stairs, a smile playing on his lips. "Amelie…" he sing-songed. "Time for school…" He saw her toes peeking out the edge of the door. Revealing her hiding place, he roared playfully. Amelie shrieked again giggling as she darted through his legs. John stood, equal parts exasperated and amused.

He slowly padded into the living room, sure Amelie was hiding again. She wasn't. John could barely stifle his laugh. Amelie was flung over Sherlock's shoulder, still laughing crazily and fighting his grip. "Let me down!"

"Will you get ready for school?" Sherlock's deep tone inquired.

"Yes! Yes! Let me down!"

…

Amelie sat outside the school, waiting for John and Sherlock to come. She shared a snack – crackers and jello – with one of the other girls. They talked happily, complaining about homework and comparing the books they'd read. Amelie waved excitedly when she saw John and Sherlock walking up to the school.

She jumped up as the other girl screwed up her face. "You have _two dads_? Ew!"

Amelie turned to the other girl, eyes angry. She shook her head at the girl. "Some boys like boys and they fall in love and get married. Now eat your jello."

Amelie ran to John and Sherlock, giving them each a bear hug. "I missed you at school today! But it was fun! I don't like math so much, but my science teacher's amazing! And so's my history teacher, and language…"

John and Sherlock listened happily to their daughter's chatter. They shared a look as she skipped ahead. Maybe they weren't the perfect family, but they'd make it work. They always did.

**Hooray, fluffy ending! I love all of you who have taken the time to read this. I loved writing this and I hope you loved reading it. Please, send me a review or a PM – I don't bite and I'd love to hear from you!**


End file.
